What the World Makes Us
by capjack54
Summary: Sam promised Dean he wouldn't 'go down that road'... but suppressing his powers could have dangerous consequences for both Winchesters.
1. Witching Hour 72

Hey there, guys! This is my Supernatural fic, so bear with me.

Feel free to read, smile, and review!

**1. Witching Hour 72**

"**This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you." – Chuck Palahniuk**

The warehouse appeared in every way a tomb. The uninterrupted dark seemed just as capable of beating back the light as it had when they'd been here earlier, before the sun had set. Looming, dust-covered figures leapt gruesomely from the shadows like the twisted gargoyles of an old cemetery, though in truth the 'monsters' were nothing but bits of machinery, odds and ends that had been laid to rest in unfortunate formations. Certainly, the stench that hung about the place held a definite element of decay.

_Only one thing that smells like that,_ Dean thought with a twinge of nausea. Every since his return from hell, it seemed like he and Sam had completely reversed in their roles. Suddenly, Sam had become the one willing to do anything to protect _him _from the scheming legions of hell. That wouldn't have bothered him as much – after all, Sam had learned a few new tricks for this war – if he himself didn't have to turn into a squeamish wuss in order to make it happen.

Cautiously, he picked his way through half-rotten boxes full of rusty forks and other utensils. The whole warehouse was one big breeding pit for tetanus and all sorts of other nasty bugs – and for what? Each room was crammed almost floor to ceiling with items the black market hadn't been able to find a use for – crates jammed with Japanese golfing magazines, barrels of black peppercorn now interspersed with mouse droppings, boxes of old-fashioned metronomes with fancy, handmade clock hands. In the last room, he'd stumbled across two dozen containers of moldy peanut butter and a lifetime supply of neon leg warmers, both of which testified as to how long it had been since someone had been in here.

However, according to recent reports in this area, the entity that had taken up residence in the old warehouse was much more a some_thing_ than a some_one, _hence the presence of the Winchester boys. Pausing, Dean dug from his pocket the EMF meter he'd repaired since last hunt; the absence of light from the machine assured him the unsavory smell clogging his nostrils might be disgusting, but it was entirely normal.

Unfortunately, the source of the smell was made no less gruesome by this fact when he stumbled onto it a few minutes later. The corpse had been given less than a beggar's funeral, the completely white eyes staring blankly up at him; the man was partially concealed by no more than a miniature mountain of ballpoint pens, an entire box of which had apparently been upended over the body. Kneeling beside it, Dean reached out to examine the dark pool of liquid beside it; he jerked back his hand with a start as he felt warm stickiness adhere to his skin. Judging by the color, the blood was dry and several days old, but its texture and warmth suggested it had been spilt quite recently.

Rising quickly, he wiped the blood off on his shirt and drew his gun. Chances were, whatever had done this hadn't gotten far since. Briefly, he checked to be absolutely sure the bullets he'd be shooting were silver and properly equipped with salt – they'd had to swipe so many guns recently, he was never quite sure which ones they'd had time to 'upgrade.'

Suddenly, there came a noise from somewhere else in the warehouse. Ducking behind a mound of critter-nibbled bags of horse feed, he clicked off the safety, listening intently to the approaching footsteps. He couldn't help but jump when a voice came from within the room, familiar and embarrassingly loud.

"Dean?" called Sam. "Upstairs is clear. Let's face it, man, there's nothing h—"

With a cascade of quiet plinking, the pile of sharp, rusty old cutlery that had given Dean cause for alarm earlier promptly lifted into the air and threw itself at the distant doorway, where Sam had no doubt entered. With a yell, Dean broke cover, grabbing from a stack beside him a rather revealing poster of Marilyn Munroe and brandishing it before him as a shield. Estimating Sam's position, he stopped and braced himself as almost two hundred assorted dining utensils impaled the actress's smiling, posing form.

In a second, the barrage ceased, and Dean dropped the mutilated poster like a hot potato; staggering backward, he turned to see Sam, standing in the doorway, apparently unharmed and wearing somewhat of a dazed expression. Unable to form words as of yet, he blinked sluggishly, eyes moving from the skewered Marilyn to Dean's face, upon which disbelief was fading into anger.

"Excellent," Dean hissed. "Now that you've woken up every demon in the county, Einstein, can we get the hell out of here? Whatever killed our guy is still out and about."

"Out," repeated Sam.

"Yes, Sammy, out. The opposite of in." Seeing he wasn't getting his point across, he sighed in frustration and started forward, grabbing Sam by the arm and ushering him towards the door. It slammed shut an inch in front of their faces. Swearing, Dean turned and was astonished to see a sheepish grin on Sam's face.

"Do we have a plan B?" he asked with a grin.

Dean stared. "What's wrong with you?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the Japanese golfing magazines, which had quietly shredded themselves into tiny scraps and were soaring forward, ready to give the boys a few thousand paper cuts from hell. He dove for cover, dragging Sam behind like a two-year-old in a supermarket. The sheaves managed to put a few decent holes in the steel sliding door by the time they ran out of oomph, leaving the two boys panting and flooded with adrenaline, but otherwise unharmed. Sitting up with a grunt, Dean cast around for Sam, and found him lying on the floor beside him with a content smile on his face.

"Come on, Sammy," urged Dean. "We gotta go. Now."

A childish whine escaped Sam. "I just want to lie here for a while. Come back for me later, okay?"

"WHAT?!"

Just then, the pile of horse feed started to jitter; pieces of grain started tumbling off the top, serving as the small stones that start and avalanche. The other assorted goods, all in their carefully assembled towers, started to shake. Even the floor started to rumble with some unseen presence. Somewhere on the far wall, a window shattered, adding glass shards to the miscellanea of the room. Dean's hand shot to his head as he heard a very familiar high keening noise. Grabbing Sammy's arm again, he heaved the both of them up and ran to the opposite side of the room, towards the hole left by the broken window. Ascending a staircase of pamphlets for swimming pools, he gave Sam a good shove, and he got the idea, jumping up and fitting himself carefully through. Casting one last glance at the vibrating room, Dean turned and dove through, regretting the use of his hands as leverage when he felt the hot lines of cuts open up on his palms. Nevertheless, he landed safely on the other side, and the two of them made off into the night towards the Impala, noting with a chill of fear that the warehouse stood still and silent as they drove away at speeds considerably greater than the posted limit.

--

"What the hell happened back there?"

These were the first words out of Dean's mouth once the Impala was safely speeding down the highway en route to town. He drove with a ferocity unparalleled, ignoring the fact that, despite all his griping about Sam having spilled soda in the back seat, he was now royally bleeding all over the steering wheel. Sam sat slumped in the passenger seat, staring out the window with a disinterest that Dean found staggering. He had by this point registered that what had happened didn't amuse Dean in the slightest, and so his expression was at least sullen.

"I don't know," he answered, quiet and evasive.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Dean was livid. "Last time I saw you that messed up was when you got drunk." He paused and shot Sam a skeptical look. "You're drunk?"

"No," answered Sam, continuing to evade Dean's gaze.

"Well, then, what is it? You gonna tell me that every time we go out for a job I'm going to have this to worry about?"

"I don't know!" yelled Sam suddenly, turning his gaze on Dean at last with all the scathing he was capable of. "Jesus Christ, will you stop asking me?!"

"Whoa," said Dean, raising a hand and adding blood to the list of things staining the upholstery. "Take it easy, bro."

For a minute, Sam sat with his eyes closed. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I've just been off a bit lately."

"You don't say," said Dean, then added more softly, "I've been worried about you. Tell me what's going on with you."

Opening his eyes, Sam stared at the dashboard with a strange intensity. "I had another nightmare."

Dean looked sharply over at his brother, a sudden knot in his stomach. Sam continued without prompting.

"Three days ago. I dreamt about a man in a darkened room. The room started to shake, and everything got really bright, and then—" he took a breath. "—and then his were eyes burned out of his head."

"But that's not right," pointed out Dean hopefully. "Our guy just went blind. His eyes were still there."

Sam shot him a look. "Yeah, but I mean, it was pretty close. How many people have dreams that come that close to coming true?"

Dean shrugged. "I think you're being paranoid."

"You want to believe I'm being paranoid," amended Sam. "But I haven't been able to sleep since. That _has _to mean something."

Dean very nearly slammed on the brakes. "Sammy, are you telling me you haven't slept for _three whole days_? Like, seventy six hours?"

"Seventy two," admitted Sam. "It's a sign."

"Yes," said Dean, looking at Sam in a new light. "Of insomnia."

Sighing, Sam looked once more out the window. "Maybe."

"Look," said Sam, "we'd better lie low for a bit anyway after what happened back there. Tomorrow, we'll find a hospital. Maybe you can get something for it."

"Pills?" offered Sam, clearly unenthusiastic about the idea.

"Hey," said Dean, shrugging, "This warehouse thing is going to be a bitch, I can tell ya right now; I need you a hundred percent. If it'll get you to be a hundred percent, I say it's worth a try. Besides, to not sleep for that long just isn't natural."

"Oh, and we deal with things that are natural so often," scoffed Sam.

"Touché," said Dean with a smile, giving the Impala an extra kick of speed. "Touché."


	2. Like an Angel Scorned

Good. I have a few of you intrigued. Here's the next installment.

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**2. Like an Angel Scorned**

"**Blessed is the servant who loves his brother as much when he is sick and useless as when he is well and an be of service to him." – St. Francis of Assisi**

The motel room was quiet at this hour; the TV screen danced with the black-and-white magic of _The Count of Monte Cristo, _but with the sound turned down, Edmund could do no more than pose emphatically with his dearest Mercedes by his side. The credits finally started to roll, but Dean wasn't watching them; instead, his gaze was fixed on Sam, curled up in the other bed, breathing softly in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. On the bedside table, next to the cheap motel bible, sat a prescription bottle, which announced to the world in outdated lettering that the Ambien inside was intended for one Mike Johnson, who, as far as the staff of the Sedgwick County Hospital were concerned, was the individual who was sleeping so soundly as a result.

Irony was coming back to bite him in the ass, he realized; ever since Sam had told him about the nightmare, despite his outward nonchalance, he had been on high alert. Every wince, every furrowed brow each toss and turn and twinge seemed a suddenly dangerous thing; and yet, for all the private fuss he made, in noticing each tiny movement, he was doing no more than catching at smoke, and he knew it. Despite Sam's skepticism, Dean was fully prepared to believe all of this was just stress, and that the proper way to deal with it was, as with any minor illness, to simply let it take its course.

Just then, the TV flickered, and, being the only source of light, plunged the room into utter darkness. Dean sat up, watching the screen fade to black, then jump to life again, only to sputter off a second later. Finally, after several seconds of a continuous blank screen, there came the quiet tap, tap tapping of a knock on the door. Feeling around, he found the drawer of the bedside table, pulled it out, and grabbed from it a loaded nine millimeter. Hesitantly, he slid off the bed, tiptoeing to avid waking Sam, and crossed to the door; standing off tone side, he grasped the doorknob, settled his nerves, and threw it open.

Standing before him was what appeared to be a handsome man in his early to mid thirties, a knowing and slightly pretentious face framed by a haircut that could have found a nice home in a cubicle somewhere. The 'man' was certainly dressed for an office job: white collared shirt, tasteless tie, complete with a formless trench coat. In the space of a carefully calculated contemptuous pause, he looked first from Dean's tense expression, to the gun pointed rather threateningly at his chest, and at last, peeking around Dean into the room beyond, at Sam's inert form.

"Nice to see you too, Dean," greeted Castiel. "How's Sam?"

The angel made a move to step around him, but Dean quickly stepped forward, shutting the door behind him with a subdued snap.

"Asleep," he answered curtly. "And he's going to stay that way."

"Fair enough," conceded Castiel, retreating. "We'll discuss your brother later. For now, I need to talk to you about the warehouse job – the one you failed."

"How—" began Dean, but he thought better of it. "Never mind. What about it?"

Backing up further, Castiel leaned himself against a nearby lamppost. "Do you know what it is you're hunting?"

Dean shrugged. "Based on the guy at the warehouse, I'd say we're looking at a run-of-the-mill poltergeist with a few new tricks."

For the first time in their relationship, Castiel let out a quiet chuckle. "Wrong," he said bluntly. "Considering what they are, you'll want to avoid looking at them at all."

"And what are they, exactly?"

"Grigori," replied Castiel.

There was a pause.

"By the way you said that," said Dean, "I'm guessing that's supposed to mean something to me."

With a sigh, Castiel clarified. "Angels. Fallen angels."

Dean's face fell. "I have to deal with more of you guys? I'm sorry, but you're just about all I can take, Cas."

"Amusing," said Castiel, though he clearly didn't think so. "Grigori are much like angels. They've simply lost the Lord's favor in one way or another – doubt, free will… they have many of the same powers, though they are less potent."

"The guy at the warehouse," realized Dean aloud. "His eyes weren't gone – he just went blind."

Castiel nodded. "Their true form has less effect than mine. Still, they are considerably dangerous, especially the three you are hunting. One of them, Shemyazaz, was the one who attacked you at the warehouse. He is their leader; my brothers and I have been seeking him for some time. The others are Arakiel and Ramiel; according to the writings on the apocalypse, they are to lead all men's souls to judgment, but, seeing as they have defected Paradise, the legions are unsure of what the outcome will be. It is the Lord's wish that you find them and… take care of them."

"I didn't know angels used euphemisms," said Dean. "Besides, why don't you and your brothers just go out and 'take care of them' yourselves?"

For a moment, Castiel looked sour. Then he said, "you're right."

Dean gawked. "Come again?"

"I must have been wrong about you, Dean. The grigori _are_ quite dangerous – they might be too much for you to handle."

Abruptly, Dean bristled. "Now, wait up a minute there, golden boy. I can handle a lot more than you figure."

Castiel smiled. "That's what I thought you'd say. The Lord will be pleased by your service."

There was something in the angel's voice that Dean didn't quite like, but it still took him a minute to comprehend the consequences of his comment. "That's not fair!" he protested. "Aren't angels supposed to be above stupid Jedi mind mojo?"

Castiel shrugged. "The Lord works in—"

Dean cut him off with a wave. "Any other holy housework you want to trick me into doing?"

"Actually, now that that's settled, we need to have a talk about your brother."

Dean forced himself to smile. "What, Sammy? He's doing fine. Peachy, even."

The angel's smile disappeared. "Don't lie to me, Dean. He's been having nightmares again. In fact, he's having one right now, as we speak. And it's about to come true."

The words made Dean's stomach turn to ice. Turning, he grabbed the doorknob, only to pull his hand back sharply as the flesh was invisibly seared by divine heat.

"Let me in," he ordered, trying to shake the pain from his hand as if it were water.

"No," the angel replied, all compassion gone from his eyes. "You need to listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you, Dean. Things are going to get bad for Sam – worse than before. And if they get bad enough, I'll have no choice but to follow orders."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" interjected Dean. "Sam hasn't used his powers in weeks. I know; I haven't let him out of my sight."

"Like you did just now?" pointed out Castiel. "Besides, we know that already."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"These visions of his," Castiel said. "We have reason to believe they have something to do with the fugitive grigori – Ramiel in particular. If you can find them, this can all end. But until then, my brothers and I will be watching."

"Whatever. I'll find them, I swear. Just let me in!"

"Just keep a close eye on your brother for now," concluded Castiel.

A sudden wind kicked up, whistling across an otherwise uninhabited parking lot, and, in a blink, the angel was gone, leaving Dean alone to ponder his words. With a sudden start, he remembered Castiel's earlier warning, and he lunged for the door, bursting into their motel room…

…and all was well. The lump that was Sam was still tucked in bed, hogging all the blankets in true Sammy fashion. Dean let out his held breath.

"You can be a real pain in the ass, Cas," he muttered, electing to shut the door quietly instead of submitting to the urge to slam it. Both options turned out to be incorrect, however, as the doorway had, in line after the TV, been providing the only light. He turned, grumbling, searching for the lamp. His outstretched arms managed to hit something which he realized too late was not an inanimate object, and suddenly, something jumped him from behind, wrapping a thick arm around his throat, with a hand over his mouth so what little air remained in his lungs couldn't turn into a scream.


	3. A Night on the Tiles

Thanks for the reviews, guys -- I really do appreciate them.

Since this next week might be a little crazy for me, here's an update a little early.

Read, smile, and review!

**3. A Night on the Tiles**

"**Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry. / Mother's gonna make all of your nightmares come true. / Mother's gonna put all of her fears into you." – Pink Floyd, **_**The Wall**_

Choking, breathless, Dean struggled, grabbing at the muscular arm in an attempt to pull it off, but it was no use – the stranger was too strong; a steadily applied pressure continued to crush his larynx. His vision sliding in and out of focus, he felt suddenly lightheaded. Gradually, his knees gave out, and his assailant followed him to the floor, sinking down behind him with silent grace. In a sudden flash of clarity, he caught a glint of metal in the darkness – the nine mil he'd dropped. Letting go of the arm around him throat, he reached for it, stretching until at last, his shaking fingers closed around the handle, Gripping it tight, he estimated his attacker's position and lashed out.

A surprised grunt from behind him confirmed the hit, and the stranger's arm went suddenly limp. Drawing in great heaving gulps of air, Dean forced himself to his feet; a few staggering steps brought him to where the bedside table ought to be. His gun still trained on the spot where his would-be killer lay, he reached out, found the lamp, and switched it on.

And he gaped.

"Sammy?" he managed between gasping breaths.

Indeed, lying on the floor next to the bed, clutching his bleeding head, was none other than Sam Winchester. At Dean's hail, he stirred; blinking drowsily, he dabbed at the small cut the gun had made above his eye.

"Ow," he proclaimed upon seeing his red fingertips. "What was that for?"

Dean gawked; he'd been doing a lot of this lately. "Well, trying to kill me, for starters! What is _wrong _with you?!"

"Dean, I have no idea what you're talking about," insisted Sam, eyeing the nine mil with genuine fear. "There I am, asleep, and the next thing I know, I'm on the floor with you beating the crap out of me."

"Hold up there, bro," said Dean, comprehension beginning to dawn. "Asleep -- were you dreaming?"

"I don't know. Maybe – yeah, I think so. Why?"

"What about?"

"It was weird," started Sam, squinting as if the story were written on the far wall over Dean's shoulder. "We were here, in the room, asleep, but it was different; someone came in – Gordon, maybe? Anyway, he came over to my bed. He had piano wire, he put it around my throat and—"

A shudder passed through Sam, and he stroked his throat protectively; slowly, Dean lowered his gun.

"Wait," said Sam, collecting himself, "you're saying I just tried to kill you? Just like that?" He shook his head and sat up with a little help from the bed. "What the hell is happening to me, Dean?"

"I have no idea," he said. "But I'm going to find out."

--

Twenty hours later, Sam was ready to take his brain off the hook and just go insane already. Following their three-in-the-morning altercation, Dean had taken off, saying he had to do some research on a potential job. Visibly shaken by Sam's interactive vision, he'd ordered Sam to stay put, effectively putting him under house arrest, until he returned. Pacing restlessly, he peered anxiously at the digital clock, which read 11:17.

Irritated, he began pacing again. A worse case of cabin fever he'd never come across; both beds were perfectly made, hospital corners and all. All their clothes were neatly folded, tucked in the foul-smelling motel bureau and lovingly arranged by color. The bathroom, he knew, was spotless, painstakingly polished and decorated with various starchy hand towels folded into once-amusing shapes. Every tiny object in the room was in its place – and, more significantly, he'd run out of things to do.

Giving in at long last, he stopped pacing, instead entering the bathroom. Sliding back the mirror, he grabbed from the medicine cabinet the one bottle it housed; he traversed the childproof cap with ease and shook a pair of pills into his trembling hands. The sink provided the water he needed to both wash the pills down his throat and wash the nervous sweat from his face. Running his hands through his hair, he stood for a moment, watching his own pale-faced reflection and wondering how exactly he'd gotten here.

Suddenly, he felt it; somewhere deep in his brain, a switch quietly turned itself from off to on. The telltale sharp pain lanced through his forehead. Grunting, he clutched at it, seeing the eyes in the mirror widen with the terror of the oncoming vision. Images flashed before his eyes, driving the spike of pain further into his mind – _a little girl jumping rope with a goofy, toothless grin, a cheerfully squeaking rubber duck, wet pigtails, apple juice, mud, soap, giggling…_

Staggering back, he panted with exertion, barely avoiding tripping over the edge of the bathtub. He'd barely had time to sit down upon it, still reeling from the montage, before _the cheap motel bathroom was gone, replaced by one of much better quality. In a bathtub filled with pink bubbles sat a little girl, her long, blonde pigtails brushing the surface of the water as she made the scantily clad Barbies in her hands go for a swim. Beside her, on the bright white tiles, lay a soiled jumper and a tiny pink T-shirt, slowly dripping mud onto the floor._

"_You're very pretty today, aren't you, Brittany?" the girl cooed to one of the dolls as she had it perform a rather impressive back flip. "Tina's going to get jealous if you're not careful. She likes Ken too, you know."_

_The picturesque scene was interrupted when the door opened and in poked the head of a woman in her late thirties, an exasperated expression on her face. Catching sight of the frolicking girl, she frowned._

"_Lindsay, it's way past your bedtime. You need to wrap it up in here; mommy needs to go to bed, too."_

"_Do I have to?" whined Lindsay._

"_Five minutes," said the mother. "Then I want you in bed. Understand?"_

"_Whatever," Lindsay answered._

_The door closed, then immediately opened again. The woman quickly shut the door behind her and crossed to the medicine cabinet; browsing the shelves, she retrieved a bottle labeled 'Lunesta' and proceeded to take two of the brightly colored pills. Lindsay seemed to ignore the entire event, until a male voice from elsewhere in the house called out._

"_Karen? Karen, the dog just peed in the living room again."_

"_What? Hang on a minute, Harry," replied the woman, just downing the second pill._

"_Aw, Karen, it's everywhere, I could really use your—"_

"_All right, I'm coming, I'm coming," interrupted Karen, disappearing into the hallway. _

_In the bathtub, Lindsay abandoned her Barbies. Wading to the edge of the tub, she peeked out the open door, then turned a curious eye on the bottle of Lunesta, standing open on the counter. With little difficulty, she climbed out of the tub, pausing just long enough to wrap a towel around herself before making a beeline for the bottle. Carefully, she lifted it down from the counter and looked inside. Reaching in, she pulled out a bright green pill, considered it for a minute, then popped it in her mouth and chewed. Apparently, she liked what she tasted; she pulled out another, and then another._

This candy tasted good, _she thought. _How come only mommy got to have some?

_Soon, she had the bottle upside down, and was shaking it over her open mouth. Pills bounced everywhere, settling in the grooves between tiles, but she didn't care, she just wanted more. Giggling, she started to stagger all over the place; she tripped and fell, dropping the bottle with a clatter. Sighing, she smiled at the ceiling, her eyelids already starting to close._

"_I think I ate too much," she explained to the cracked plaster there. "What do you think… Sammy?"_

In a sudden symphony of light and sound, Sam returned to himself. He felt himself falling, falling backwards; then there was a dull pain in his head, followed by a quiet, girlish giggle, and after that, only black…

--

Pulling into the familiar motel parking spot, Dean sighed and cut the Impala's engine. After four hours on the road, eight in a library, five in various generally creepy places, and three in a bar, he was more than ready to call it a day. Sliding out of the driver's seat, he walked around to the other side and pulled open the passenger door. Each of his stops had afforded him important information, most of which he'd taken the liberty of bringing home. At the bottom were four or five library books, theological volumes on the history, identities, and prophecies of fallen angels. On top of these rested a stack of papers, which were the crime reports for every disturbing the peace and unsolved murder case in the county.

On top of all this sat perhaps the most important papers of all, three scraps upon which were scrawled the numbers of the librarian, police officer, and barmaid he'd had to sweet talk to get all the rest. The way Dean figured it, his picking up girls was somewhat of an emergency response. Take puffer fish, he reasoned; when they got scared or felt threatened, they puffed themselves up and tried to look real big. When Dean got scared or felt threatened, he would find the nearest possible girl and get her number.

After a few minutes of careful adjustment, he managed to balance all of it well enough to walk. Slamming the car door, he hurried to the door to their room, fished around in his pockets for the key, and opened it. Inside, the room was dark, except for the light that leaked from beneath a nearly closed bathroom door. From inside the bathroom could be heard the sounds of running water.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean called. "How're you feeling, man?"

There was no reply. Brow wrinkling, Dean approached the bathroom door hesitantly.

"Hey, don't you give me the silent treatment. It was _you_ who tried to kill _me_, remember?"

_Squelch._

Looking down, he saw the carpet around his shoe glistening with hidden moisture; stepping back, he observed the sizeable dark, wet patch that radiated out from the threshold. Cautiously, he moved forward again, nudging the door open with his foot.

"Sam, what're you doing? There's water all over the—"

The books and papers in his arms fell to the floor in a great rush.

Bathed in the dim light of a nearly dead fluorescent, the scene in the bathroom was even more terrifying. The sink overflowed with water, running over the counter and dripping onto the floor. Also on the floor, gathered in the cracks between the tiles, were ten or twenty bright blue pills, slowly dissolving in the quarter inch of water gathered there. In the middle of it all lay a sadly pale figure, eyes firmly closed and shadowed, clutching the empty Ambien bottle helplessly. The water on the floor mixed with the bloody bruise on the side of his head, explained by the matching crimson smear on the lip of the tub where he'd hit it when he fell. From where he was standing, Dean couldn't make out whether or not Sam was breathing.

"Jesus Christ," breathed Dean, already fumbling for his cell to call 9-1-1.


	4. Right Angles to Reality

The rule of thumb is proven right again. The one surefire way to get your readers' attention? Kill off the main character. Well, never fear, Sammy lovers. This chapter is for you.

Your reviews are quite encouraging. Muchas gracias. And, as per request, I am making an effort to write longer chapters.

Read, smile, and review!

**4. Right Angles to Reality**

"**Action and care will wear down the strongest frame, but guilt and melancholy are poisons of quick dispatch." – Thomas Paine**

_A singsong voice interrupted the darkness with a sudden solo._

_"Sam-my… wake up, Sam-my…"_

"Sam? Jesus, Sam… come on, Sammy… wake up, talk to me—"

Confused, hesitant, he drifted, trying to center himself in the void. He got the vague feeling that there was something big going on that he was missing, but he wrote it off as what Dean would happily call paranoia. Dean – his brain did somersaults as it tried to process the situation. Where _was_ Dean?

"Hello? 911? I need an ambulance. My brother, he took all his sleeping pills. No, no, he's unconscious..."

_Giggles echoed through his brain, and the voice of the little girl called again. "Come on, Sam-my… open your eyes for me, Sam-my, or we can't play…"_

"Sam, if you can hear me, you need to breathe, okay? Just breathe…"

"…all right people, we have a Caucasian male, mid-twenties, severe OD. Pulse is—"

With no small effort, he pried his eyes open a crack. Around him materialized bright white lights, with bright white walls, and bright white eyes filled with fear; there was cold metal, flashing lights, a cacophony of sound, and a single face he knew standing out in the crowd.

"Sam? Are you with me, Sam?"

Casting around himself, he took in the trauma room with terrified wonder. The hospital? What was he doing here? He tried to pose these questions to Dean, hovering over him like the worst obsessed parent, but the words were stuck in his throat, along with something hard and unforgiving that ran down its length. He gagged at the bizarre feeling, then realized what it was. The ensuing coughing fit jarred the plastic tube; he could feel it inside him, snaking right down to a roiled stomach. Overwhelmed and terrified, he started to shake; the figures bustling around him came into sharper focus when hands found his shoulders and held him down. Weakly, Sam struggled, quivering with lessening rebellion as Dean came into view again, his lips forming the soft words before he heard them.

"Ssssh, Sammy, ssssh… easy, easy… just relax, bro…"

He yelped in pain and astonishment as the world flickered, the colors reversing into a strange negative image before it was all gone and _in its place was a wall done in yellow plasterboard siding and a pleasant blue sky. He felt the surface beneath him turn into something loose and gravelly as he rode out the transition – probably bark mulch, judging by the smell in the air and the tasteless plants among which he seemed to be laying. Peering around at his surroundings, Sam jumped at the return of the voice, quite close and much clearer this time._

_"I don't think you really _get _hide-and-go-seek, Sammy," it observed. "The person who's _not '_it' hides, and once you're done counting, you have to come find me. Okay? Let's try it again."_

"Whoa! Sammy? Sam! Can someone tell me what just happened?"

"… let's work quickly, people… standby for gastric lavage…"

_Looking up, Sam squinted against the sunlight to make out his companion, and was astonished to see a very familiar girl in a soiled jumper and a pink T-shirt, watching him and impatiently adjusting her blonde pigtails._

_"Lindsay?" he said, incredulous._

_"Why, of course, Sammy, who else?" She put her hands on her hips. "You're not tired, are you? You promised you'd play with me."_

"I know you're tired, but you've gotta fight, Sammy…"

_"No," said Sam hastily, feeling guilty but not sure why. "No, I'll still play with you."_

_"Well, get out of Mommy's flowers before she sees you, and count again."_

_With this, the girl turned and skipped away, disappearing around the corner of what he realized must be a house. True to Lindsay's word, he did indeed appear to be lying in a flowerbed next to a rather bland yellow house. Standing, he stepped from the garden, careful to rearrange the crushed plants in some semblance of order before making his way into the front yard. The grass was spotlessly primped and preened, as were the twelve other yards exactly like it he could see from where he was standing. He looked out over the neighborhood, and the spirit of suburbia stared right back at him._

_"Sammy? Are you counting, Sammy?" came the shrill reminder._

_"What? Yes," Sam called back. In fact, someone seemed to be counting for him, but he couldn't tell who; he appeared to be the only person on the street._

"…he's in V-fib… defibrillator on my mark… one, two, three—"

_He was about to go off looking for her when he spotted something interesting – a wad of envelopes sticking out of the mailbox. Jogging down the driveway, he pulled out the papers, leaning against the yard's white picket fence as he went through them. He was looking for one thing in particular, and he found it on the very first bill – an address. The way he saw it, if this was all just one big premonition, they had to find this girl and stop her from doing what she had done in his last vision. He scanned it a few times, trying to memorize it._

"Mrs. Karen Greene, 14 Maverick Lane, Lawrence, Kansas," he parroted, feeling suddenly out of breath. "Mrs. Karen Greene, 14 Maverick Lane, Lawrence, Kansas…"

"What's he saying?"

"I don't know, but we're losing him. Can someone get his brother out of here?"

"No. No! I won't leave him, I can't leave him—"

"Just come with me, sir. Everything's going to be just fine—"

_On a whim, he stuck one of the bills in his pocket and set the rest on top of the mailbox. He turned again when Lindsay's calculated whine split the air._

_"You're no fun, Sam-my. All I wanted to do was play hide-and-go-seek."_

_Suddenly, he had to grip the mailbox for support; all the breath was gone from his, and there was something unsavory building in his stomach he didn't like. Looking down, he watched his hands sputter in and out of existence like the picture on a television with spotty reception. Lindsay's face fell as she watched his health rapidly degenerate. _

_"You don't look so good, Sammy. Come in the house; we'll get you all washed up."_

_Unable to manage anything else, he let her take him by the arm, followed her up the front steps and through hallways with shiny hardwood flooring, barely avoiding tripping over a beagle with a tag that said 'Princess' as he stumbled on. The world flickered and buzzed, went negative, turned sideways, then righted itself in all respects. At last, Lindsay stopped in front of a door, reached for the handle, and pushed it open._

_It was a bathroom, but not the one he'd seen before, the one that was supposed to be here. Instead, he realized, it was the bathroom from the motel, exactly the way he'd left it last night, complete with a cold, pale version of himself, sprawled on the floor, clutching the empty pill bottle. Lindsay gaped and started to giggle._

_"Samuel Winchester, look at the mess you made! Mommy won't be happy, not one bit!"_

_The _him _on the floor stirred, its eyelids fluttering open, and, catching sight of him, it smiled weakly. A sheen of pure black swept over its eyes, and when it opened its mouth to speak, it was Lindsay's voice that came out._

_"I think I ate too much. What do you think… Sammy?"_

"It's no use. Get me the EP – adrenaline's his only chance now."

_Backing away from the grotesque scene, his stomach spasmed once, twice, in preparation for what was to come. There was a sudden, sharp pain in his chest, slowly building, and Lindsay waved at him sadly as her, the house, and the dreamed-up Lawrence, Kansas began to systematically turn itself inside out. His brain feeling like it was fit to burst, he shut his eyes tight, grabbed his head in his hands, and wished for it to be over…_

…and it was. In a second, the blur of sensory input had resolved itself once more into the bright white mess of the hospital trauma room, and it was onto this sterile white floor he vomited. For a moment, he lay, gasping, as the laws of physics got a firm hold on him once more, anchoring him in reality. Or, at least, so he thought; when his wandering eyes found the observation window, through which countless loved ones had kept an eye on their less fortunate companions, not one, but _two_ faces stared in at him: Dean's, ghostly white and streaked with tears, but also that of a little girl with blonde pigtails and a toothless grin…

--

"So why'd you do it?"

These were the words that greeted him a half an hour later as he lay in his bed in recovery. Jerking awake, he blinked away the pain relievers the nurse had given him.

"Dean," he said, smiling with dumb relief. "Good to see you too."

"Apparently not," Dean shot back. He wasn't smiling. "Stop acting and tell me. Why did you do it?"

Sam furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, gonna give me the same old song and dance?" Dean paced, hands in his pockets. "You had me worried sick! Don't you ever scare me like that again, or so help me god, I will follow you to hell and spend eternity kicking your sorry ass!"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," Sam interrupted, flummoxed by his brother's ire. "What's gotten into you? Are you going to tell me what happened to me?"

Dean stopped and shot him a look, tapping his foot uneasily. "Yeah, right after you tell me why you tried to kill yourself. I mean, look, I know that it's bad, okay? So Yellow-Eyes shows up when you're a wee little kid and hands you shit on a stick. That does not give you the right to do this to me! Jesus, Sam, if you'd just told me how bad it was, I could have helped you with it, or I'd have found someone who could. You didn't have to go and suck down thirty sum-odd sleeping pills – which, I'll add, it was completely _disgusting_ to watch get sucked right back out again. Never, ever get drunk enough to need a stomach pump – it's not worth it, you can take my word for it…"'

"But I didn't try to kill myself!" interrupted Sam. "I don't even know how I got here!"

The torrent of babbling promptly ceased. "Run that by me again?"

"You told me to stay in the room, so I did. The last thing I remember is the bathroom – I took two Ambien. I was going to take a nap, but—" his face blossomed with sudden comprehension. "A vision. I had a vision."

"While you were awake?" Dean shook his head. "This just gets better and better. What else do you remember?"

"A girl – Lindsay. Lives at 14 Maverick Lane, Lawrence, Kansas. She's going to kill herself. She took a crap load of her mom's Lunesta when she wasn't looking. Only, when I went back, it was me on the floor."

"Jesus," breathed Dean.

"So what happened?" asked Sam.

Briefly, Dean recounted the events in the motel room the night before.

"That makes two, then," he said grimly. "Two 'interactive' visions. And they're getting worse."

"We gotta find a way to stop this, Dean," Sam pointed out. "I almost killed you, and now I almost killed myself. I'm a danger to myself and others." He suddenly got quiet. "You remember what Dad said, don't you?"

"Hey, don't you even think about anything like that," warned Dean with proper menace. "We'll find a way out of this. Do you hear me? We'll find a way."

Sam nodded slowly as an obnoxious rock beat split the air; hastily, Dean dug out his cell phone and flipped it open. On the tiny, beat up screen glowed the message:

FIVE MINUTES

SECOND TABLE IN THE VISITOR'S LOUNGE

AND ONE CUP OF COFFEE

YOU LOOK TIRED…

Dean looked up sharply, gaze darting from the windows to the hallway beyond the closed room door, but both were empty, save what he fancied was a flash of a dull tan trench coat and a white-collar haircut as someone familiar passed their room. Looking back at his brother, Dean gave a brief smile.

"I don't' know about you, but I could use a cup of joe," he said, slapping the bedpost in a friendly manner.

"My stomach and I aren't on speaking terms yet," Sam said, pulling a face at the thought.

"In that case, can I trust you long enough to slip out for a spell, or are you going to try to strangle the nurses with your IV because Elvis told you to?"

Sam laid back with a grin. "I think I'll be able to contain myself."

--

Sure enough, five minutes later, he was sitting down at the second table in the visitor's lounge, armed with a coffee and a grim attitude. Across from him sat Castiel, vaguely nursing a cup of tea while watching the people come and go with a bridled interest. Dean fell into the chair with a whump for added emphasis.

"Jesus Christ, Cas," he exclaimed vehemently.

"He's a nice man," said Castiel mildly, as if they were talking about the weather. "I met him once. What about him?"

"This is out of control," said Dean. "You're crossing the line here."

"Me?" The angel brushed a bit of dirt off his jacket and took a sip of tea. "This is none of my doing. Didn't anyone ever tell you 'don't shoot the messenger'?"

Dean said nothing – just took a swig of coffee that suggested he wished the cheap Styrofoam cup was filled with whiskey.

"It'll only get worse, I promise you that. If you want it to stop, you have to track down the grigori." Cas watched him over his cup of tea. "You haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Of course not," said Dean with sarcasm. "Sammy's six inches from the Pit, and let me think – of _course_ fallen angels are the first freaking thing on my mind."

Castiel let the sarcasm pass without contest. "Get the job done, Dean. Otherwise…"

"What? You pulled me out of hell, and you'll throw me back in? Something like that?"

The angel gave him a steely look. "Or else angels and demons will be the least of your worries."

Dean cocked his head, but, in a blink, the tea and its owner had disappeared once more. With a sigh, he took another deep slug of the crappy hospital coffee and stood up, ready to return to Sam's room, when he heard a very familiar voice from behind him.

"D-Dean?"

When he turned, his eyes did a quick once-over of the short but attractive blonde and liked what he saw. On the other hand, she was staring at him like she'd seen a ghost, which, based on what she'd been told, was exactly what he must be.

"Jo!"


	5. TwoFaced Fault Line

Back from an unsuccessful NaNoWriMo bid, but I'm no less eager to write. I hope I haven't lost you all during my sabbatical! To those of you patient enough to wait for me to get moving again, thank you, and I apologize for the shortness of this chapter.

Read, smile, and review!

**5. Two-Faced Fault Line**

"**Our greatest foes, and whom we must chiefly combat, are within." – Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra**

With a bemused expression, Jo surveyed the stack of two pizzas and the six-pack of beer on the cheap motel side table, one balanced precariously on top of the other for lack of space.

"Explain to me again what I'm doing here?" she prompted Dean with a smile, watching him bustle around, preparing to leave. "And, more importantly, where's Zeppelin IV?"

"Couldn't lay my hands on it," he quipped back, "but I'm sure you've got some REO Speedwagon lying around. Anything would be better than the country crap Sammy's been passing off as music."

"Hey!" protested Sam groggily, shifting moodily in bed to glare at Dean. "I'm sleepy, not dead."

"The one seems to be leading to the other lately," Dean pointed out, patting down his jacket for keys, "which is why Jo is here. She'll just be keeping an eye on you so I can get some work done for Cas."

As if on cue, Jo picked up a shotgun from where it was leaning against the wall, cocked it, and cradled it lovingly in her arms for a moment.

"Don't worry, Sam," she said sweetly. "I'll be watching you while you sleep."

"Comforting," he agreed, eyeing the shotgun in mock fear.

"All right, I'm outta here," announced Dean, jingling his keys as he made for the door. "You kids have fun."

"Oh, a lot of fun," said Jo in a parody of seductiveness.

"Right," was Dean's reply, paired with a knowing tone.

"Hey, he's go the pizza and the beer. He may have a shot."

With his hand on the knob, Dean turned with a scoff. "I'm sorry, but I don't think our little Sammy Stomach-Pump is quite 'in the mood.' Besides, his type is much more the evil demon bitch from Hell kind."

He shut the door with a snap, leaving them to awkwardly contemplate their reactions to the parting remark. Jo watched him for a moment, noting the drawn look to his face and the eyes betraying exhaustion with masked pity. In an effort to break the silence that had fallen, she set the shotgun against the wall, crossed to the table, and grabbed a slice of pizza, flopping down unceremoniously on the other bed to eat it.

"So," she said with a stab at a casual tone, "speaking of evil demon bitches, Dean's told me all about what happened to you while he was in Hell – " Sam blushed, looking sheepish for a moment, "—but he hasn't said a word about what happened to him."

Sam fidgeted for a moment, his mind running through each brief conversation he'd had with his brother about his experience, trying to decide how much to tell. In the end, he decided on the easiest amount to remember – none.

"He doesn't like to talk about it," he explained quietly. "Since he came back from the Pit, he's been… different. Quieter. He keeps more to himself."

"He doesn't seem different to me," Jo attempted to argue with a light heart. "As rudely charming and smelly as ever."

Sam didn't appear amused. "That's just it. I mean, Dean's learned to keep a lot of stuff to himself on account of me. But this? He's been to hell and back, and for a while, he was trying to make me believe he didn't even remember. It wouldn't bother me so much if I knew he was working on things through on his own, but he's treating it like some sort of bad vacation – you keep all the pictures and souvenirs, but you pretend it never happened."

Sipping her beer, Jo considered him for a moment. "And what about you?"

Sam turned to meet her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You talk a good game, Sam, but it's pretty easy to see you haven't put this behind you. I've been with you guys for a day or two now, and it doesn't take a genius to see you guys are out of it. Whenever Dean's around, you're angry, always playing defense."

"I'm not angry at Dean," he stated bluntly, dodging her eyes as the truth in her statement stung him. She cocked her head in realization.

"Guilt, she said softly. "You feel guilty about what Dean went through."

Sam was silent. "Dean said that four months was like forty years down there. Forty years. I'm not worth that."

"It was his choice to make."

"I didn't do anything," he argued after a hesitation. "I couldn't do anything. I tried so hard to get him out of it, but I didn't try hard enough. There's always a choice. There's always a way out."

"And there was, by the sound of it," said Jo. "Dean's angel friend came and pulled him out in the end."

"I guess."

"Here," she said, tossing him a beer. "Breakfast of liquid-diet-only champions."

Opening it with a pop, he took a cautious sip, swilled it around in his mouth, and considered. Then, with a sudden, jerking movement, he spat it out in one undignified spray. Jo ran to the bathroom for a towel.

"I guess you're on baby food for a while," she joked. Pulling a towel off the rack, she turned and to duck back into the room when something caught her eye. She did a double-take as her gaze passed over the mirror, which, in the very corner, seemed to be accumulating something. It was spreading outward from this point with startling speed, and she bent over the sink to get a better look. Upon closer examination and gentle prodding with her finger, she realized it was solid ice. Her investigations were cut short by a cry from the other room, to which she quickly returned.

On the bed, Sam was writhing, his back arched so sharply she could see through the gap to the hideous, smoke-stained wallpaper on the far wall. His eyes shut tight, he clenched his fists, loosing a yell with undertones more of frustration than pain. Dropping the towel, she backed away, daggering her cell out of her pocket and speed-dialing up Dean as she watched Sam struggle.

"This isn't the best time, Jo," came Dean's voice after two rings, punctuated by the quiet roar of heavy breaths.

"Dean, you have to get back here," she hissed.

"What? I've been gone for like five minutes!"

"Sam, he's – I don't know. I could use some help."

"What happened? Is he okay?"

Just then, Sam let out a particularly violent cry, the bedsprings creaking with one final convulsion before he relaxed, falling back to the bed. And then, suddenly, the cry ceased, leaving only an eerie silence. Jo, reaching for her shotgun, stopped and stared.

"Jo? Jo. Come on, pick up the damn pho--"

The quiet was interrupted by a muted giggle that chilled her. Slowly, the giggles turned to chuckles, and the chuckles to rolling laughs. Sliding up the wall, she stepped closer to the bed, gripping the shotgun tight.

"Sam?" She spotted the flash of a grin on his face and thought of the possibilities. "Aw, what the hell, Sam? That was not funny. Dean is gonna be pissed."

Approaching the bed, she wanted his attention so she could give him the evil eye, but as soon as she was near, the figure on the bed rose. In one smooth movement, put his arms around her and pushed her onto the other bed, letting his weight fall onto her in a rush. Jo struggled against him, the phone lying useless on the bed beside her as her companion took hold of her wrists. One look at his eyes, however, and she let out a scream, forcing him to clamp one palm over her mouth,

The face was still Sam's, still pale and just a little shadowed from his recent ordeal, but his usually warm brown irises were replaced with black, as well as the whites. At first sight, they appeared identical to the eyes of a demon, but in truth, there was one small difference; as if peeking out from behind some larger mass, like the sun in an eclipse, a light shone dimly from behind the darkness. At the moment, the matte black pupils had a mischievous gleam to them she had never seen there before. First things first, he reached for the cell phone, still vibrating with Dean's yells. Pressing it to his ear, he set a finger against his lips as an order to Jo, then mustered up his voice.

"I'm sorry," he said politely. "Jo can't come to the phone right now. If you have an urgent need to see her alive again, I suggest you be back here in no more than thirty minutes, as I'll probably be dangerously bored by then. You have a nice day."

With a gentle click, he ended the call and tossed the phone nonchalantly onto the unoccupied bed, then turned back to Jo, trembling beneath him. Under normal circumstances, she would have fought back – she'd repelled much more persuasive suitors before – but this was Sam. Or was it? His nose an inch from her face, he grinned devilishly in way she never knew Sam's face could stretch.

"Well, hello there," he said smoothly. "I'm Janus. And you, my dear, are some very beautiful meat."


	6. You, Me, and My Other Half

January 15th can't come fast enough.

Read, smile, and review!

**6. You, Me, and My Other Half**

"**Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face." – Nelson Demille**

Luckily, the motel was about as busy during the day as a graveyard was at night (provided the Winchesters weren't in town). Therefore, there was no one around to find it the least bit strange when the '67 Impala screeched unceremoniously into the parking lot. Dean jumped out, cutting the engine and leaving the keys in the ignition, and approached the door to their room. Drawing his gun, he pressed himself beside it and quietly tried the doorknob, only to find it locked. Unwilling to give himself away with the telltale scratch of the key in the lock – and also wanting to make a scene and attract attention in case things went south – he just went right ahead and kicked the door in.

The room was cheerful and well-lit this time, though not by natural light; a single table-lamp was on, illuminating the far corner of the room. On the far bed with his back to the door sat a familiar figure, poring over something in his hands. Hesitantly, Dean called to him.

"Sam?"

The figure raised its head. "That was fast. You're going to get the Impala impounded one of these days if you're not careful."

Dean held the gun steady while his heart thumped away haphazardly. "Where's Jo?"

As if on cue, a racket of bangs and screams came from behind the closed bathroom door. Squinting, Dean noticed that the knob mechanism had apparently melted, fusing the door shut. Returning his eyes to the stranger before him, he called out.

"You okay, Jo?"

"Majorly pissed is what I am!"

'Sam' shook his head and laughed quietly. "It was a _bitch_ getting her in there," he said in a lame imitation of Dean. "She kept trying to bludgeon me with her shotgun."

Under any other circumstances, Dean would have smiled. At the moment, however, he didn't feel the urge.

"Okay," he said. "You're not Sam. I get that. Who the hell are you, then?"

Turning with a smile, 'Sam' met Dean's eyes with his own, and Dean had the overwhelming urge to shoot as his instincts told him to 'kill the demon.'

"That's the funny part, you see," he said. "It's more a question of 'what' than 'who', and that's a question that even _I_ can't answer – not completely, anyway." He glanced down at the object in his hands, which Dean recognized as their father's journal. _His_ father's journal – whatever this thing was, it was definitely not his brother.

The banging from the bathroom erupted again.

"Janus!" came Jo's indignant cry. Dean looked from the door to the stranger.

"Janus?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

He bowed low. "At your service."

Dean's face went through a potluck of emotions that ended in disdain. "Dude, could you pick a gayer name?""

"'More gay'," Janus corrected, maintaining his good-natured grin. "I didn't choose this name. Sam chose it for me."

Dean finally allowed himself a tiny snicker. "Yeah," he said sarcastically. "Blame it on Mr. Freaky Encyclopedia."

"Ooooh, I've got you cracking jokes now," said Janus, voice dripping with glee. "Don't be frightened, Dean. I mean you and your brother no harm… as long as you adopt a similar attitude towards me."

"I'm not afraid," spat Dean defensively, flexing his fingers and gripping the gun tighter. "And you don't want to hurt Sam, my ass."

"Tell you what," said Janus, throwing the book on the bed and gesturing to the gun barrel he was currently staring down. "You put the gun down, and I'll tell you exactly how things are between me and Sammy."

Dean cocked his head, trying to gauge the truth of the statement; there was venom in his voice as he spoke. "If you've hurt him, I swear to God, I don't care what you are, I'll—"

"—kill me?" Janus finished. "Point of interest – killing Sammy is probably not the best way to get him out of this. Actually, I'm not sure if there _is_ a way you can help him now. Once you hear what I have to say, though, you might not want to get rid of me at all, considering you're the reason I'm here."

For a second, Dean hesitated; then slowly, and against his better judgment, he lowered his weapon. His curiosity was going to make him go the way of the cat one of these days. Janus smiled in a way that didn't quite put Dean at ease.

"The reason you can't help your brother with this," Janus said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, "is that this is much more a problem of the heart than of the mind."

Dean furrowed his brow. "Cut the poetic crap. What did you do to him?"

"Sam is safe," Janus assured him, putting a finger to his temple in mockery of a gun, "right here. You see, long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, you, the invincible Dean Winchester, protected by angels, had an expiration date. You told Sammy not to become something he wasn't, and he promised you he wouldn't. But once you turned into puppy chow and took the dirt nap, Sammy began to realize the truth: _not_ using his powers – _that_ was making him into something he wasn't. But either way, he couldn't deny you your dying wish, could he? What a conundrum for poor little Sammy."

Dean listened in cold silence.

"So Sammy started thinking, like he does so often," continued Janus. "Oh, he tried everything to get rid of his powers. He put more miles on that journal of yours than ever. He was convinced there was a way to 'cleanse' himself of his… darker side. But there's no way to get rid of blood, not really."

Dean's face grew pale at his tone as he began to realize.

"What did he do?" he asked, numb and quiet.

"Exorcism," answered Janus. "He tried to exorcise all that 'bad stuff' right out of him. Botched it pretty badly, too – he almost sent himself straight to Hell to hang out with you on the rack. But at the last minute, something funny happened. It was his soul, you see – with one part trying to go one way, and the other part going the other, it was a simple matter of physics, I'm afraid. His soul ripped right in two."

Janus stopped and considered, ignoring Dean's apparent horror.

"Well, mostly in two, anyways. The point is, I was born that night. I guess you could say I'm Sam's worse half – snips and snails and puppy dog tails, all that jazz. For a while, I was just asleep, somewhere tucked inside that brain of his. But lately, I've discovered that whenever he has one of those acid-trip dreams of his, I can slip out from my hiding place. I can breathe the free air, live my own life, and watch lots of late-night soap operas. It's actually a pretty good deal."

Dean watched him for a minute, pretending to process what he had just heard while his mind did somersaults. Then, without warning, he trained the gun on him once more.

"Wake him up," he ordered. "Snap him out of it."

Janus threw up his hands in a mix of surrender and exasperation. "You don't get it, Dean. Sam is the one who started all of this. He made me. _He's_ in control of _me_… for now, anyway. But even if I were the big dog, I wouldn't know how to stop a vision, especially this one. It's bad enough having two people in one head – three is pushing it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Dean warily.

"It means that in this nightmare, our boy Sammy has quite an unusual houseguest."

Dean eyed him with suspicion. "Who?"

"I'm not sure, but from what I can make out, it's a demon."

"That's impossible. The tattoo would have—"

"Yeah, like a sandcastle on the beach. The little waves can't break the walls, but when the tide comes in – look out."

"You're saying a high-end demon is possessing Sam?"

"I don't know about possession, but it's probably close. Even for a powerful demon, dream-tapping is pretty tiring."

Collecting his thoughts, Dean weighed his options.

"If I put this down," he said, gesturing to the gun, "you're not going to jump me, are you?"

Janus shrugged. "Not unless Elvis tells me to."

Clicking the safety on, Dean holstered the weapon, contemplating.

"What we really need is a look inside Sam's head," he said. "Gotta get and idea of what we're dealing with."

Janus raised his eyebrows. "No way am I doing anything that will put me back in purgatory any quicker."

Dean's eyes wandered with his mind, trying to find some sort of solution; his eyes suddenly locked onto the book on the bed – his father's journal. He remembered opening the book for the first time, and seeing the messily scrawled first entry.

"'I went to Missouri and discovered the truth'," he recited quietly.

"Say what?"

"Look," said Dean, "I don't give a damn about your vacation time, but I think we can do this without putting you to sleep."

"Excellent," said Janus, straightening, his good humor restored. "I'm all ears."

Turning, Dean made for the door. "Pack your bags," he called. "We're going on a field trip."

Janus raised his brows. "May I ask where?"

"Home. Good old Lawrence. We have this friend there – I'll explain in the car."

"Very well," conceded Janus. "But before we go gallivanting off, may I make one suggestion?"

Dean turned and gave him a steely look. "What?"

"Perhaps it would be best if you let the young lady out of the bathroom at this time."


	7. The Boys Are Back In Town

**7. The Boys Are Back In Town**

"**My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain." – William Shakespeare**

The steady, pounding rhythm of the rain on the roof of the car, mixed with the subdued gurgle of the tires wicking water off the road, was threatening to drive Dean insane as the Impala sped down yet another deserted highway. Casually, he checked the rearview mirror to confirm that Jo was still asleep; normally, she would have been pleased to know the amount of time that he spent noting she looked rather cute when she was asleep. However, at the moment, he was feeling somewhat less than flirtatious, largely due to the familiar and yet alien character sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

Janus had said little since they left the motel; he seemed content with staring wistfully out the window, but on occasion, he too would shoot a curious glance at the sleeping figure sprawled across the backseat.

"So," he said suddenly, making Dean start with surprise. "Lovely weather we're having."

"Right," replied Dean curtly, suddenly extremely interested in watching the road.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

"Almost seems to be following us," Janus commented, gesturing to the driving rain outside. Dean said nothing, so he added, "is it far to Lawrence?"

"An hour or two," he said.

Silence reigned. Turning towards Dean, Janus watched him for a moment, Desperate to fill the gap, Dean reached over and flipped on the tape deck without bothering to check what was in – in this car, it was _all _good. Twisting up the volume, he heard an eerie electronic intro give way to biting guitars and snapping drums. Under his breath, he sang along to the first few lines.

"The days grow shorter and the nights are gettin' long, feels like we're runnin' out of time…"

In the next lines, he found himself unexpectedly accompanied by Janus. His voice was somehow more like Dean's, rougher and more spirited than Sam fair, halfhearted humming.

"Everyday it seems much harder telllin' right from wrong, you've got to read between the lines…"

Dean couldn't help but crack a grin as Janus began to strum along on a personal air guitar. He matched Dean's expression, ignoring the song as he spoke.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Dean," he said with a stab at a friendly tone. "Sammy's safe and sound, and it's in my best interest to make sure that he stays that way. If it helps, you can think of me as Sammy – just more fun."

"I already told you I'm not afraid," insisted Dean. "You have decent taste in music, I'll give you that. But that's the only way you're better than Sam."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," said Janus with a smirk, but a glare from Dean discouraged further embellishment. He'd gotten used to the fact that Janus often used these vague and shifty statements, and he'd learned it was better to not take the bait. Eyebrows raised, Janus turned back to observing the rain. "Let's just say that is you hadn't gotten rid of Bloody Mary already, Sammy would have a few dirty little secrets to use as bait."

Dean's brow wrinkled. "How do you know about Bloody Mary? That was, like, three years ago. You weren't…" He fumbled for words.

"…_born _yet?" Janus finished for him. "You're correct, as far as you go. But you see, whenever Sammy has a run-of-the-mill dream, I get front row seats at a private screening." He giggled quietly, then sighed longingly. "He used to have such naughty dreams… but since you kicked it, he's been having the most dreadful nightmares."

Dean sat quiet, gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter than was perhaps necessary. "Sam never told me that."

"Oh yes," Janus assured him. "Quite gruesome. The reruns were driving me up the wall, though. I had to watch you getting torn to bits every night for two months. Then there was a month of Sammy getting his eyes carved out by Miss Bloody Mary for all the people he couldn't save, including you. Sometimes you were the one doing it. Awful stuff."

His knuckles white, Dean stared straight ahead, trying to focus on the song still playing in the background.

"You're so afraid of being honest with yourself, you'd better take a look inside your head…"

Janus watched him for another long minute.

"You can't tune me out, Dean," he pointed out softly. "Sammy can't, and neither can you. Sam created me to help him. That's what I intend on doing. And one of the things he needs to make it through this is to be able to talk to you."

"You know, for someone who's trying to convince me they're not some sort of messed-up demon, you sure seem pretty comfortable lying like one," Dean remarked, flicking an angry grin on and off at him. "Help – like hell you are…"

In a single moment, Janus seemed to change. Feeling the warmth leech from the air, Dean looked over to see a light in his eyes that he didn't like at all, which, shining out from behind Sam's features, reminded him inexplicably of how a puppy might appear if given the mind of a serial killer.

"You know, Dean, you keep setting me up as the villain in all this, but I'm not. When you told Sammy not to use his powers, he ignored you in the end. He did some things while you were gone that would make you sick. Sammy. Not me. Little Sammy. Now, take a step back from all of this and tell me: who's the real bad guy here?"

Dean sat silent, concentrating on the song, but even that betrayed the contents of his head.

"Take a look inside your heart, there's an answer in your heart…"

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURALSUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

Dean rapped hard on the door with his knuckles, then stepped back on the stoop, popping his collar against the rain and glanced quickly around at the sleeping neighborhood. Jo stood behind him, craning her neck to look up at the house before them. The three years that had passed since their last visit had left little mark on the structure; the paint had perhaps faded a little, the white paint on the trim begun to crack, but all in all, in seemed sturdy and in good order.

"So tell me who this woman is again," requested Jo.

"Her name's Missouri," replied Dean automatically. "Missouri Mosely. She helped Sam and I on a case here in Lawrence a few years back. She's a psychic."

"Like Sam?" Jo suggested.

"Kind of," Dean said, weighing the two against each other. "More reading thoughts, less creepy death visions, I guess."

"Ruby was going to teach Sam how to do that," Janus chipped in. "He was hitting a wall with pulling demons, so she was going too teach him to fact-check info he got through interrogation by mind-reading."

Dean was ready with questions to delve deeper into the subject, but behind him, the door swung open, and an overweight black woman was ushering them all inside.

"You get your butt in here, Dean Winchester, 'fore you catch cold!" she scolded. She didn't have to ask him twice; he gave her a hug as if he'd been sitting on her sofa and thinking about putting his feet on the coffee table only yesterday.

The next person through the door was Jo, who stepped awkwardly over the threshold like it was a dead cat. Missouri sized her up, then smiled.

"Don't you worry, honey," she reassured her. "You can feel right at home here." Jo nodded and smiled, and Missouri leaned in to whisper in her ear, shooting a glance at Dean. "And I agree – he _does _look mighty fine when he's wet."

Her cheeks turned bright red as Dean turned back, giving her a questioning look as he hung up his coat. She reluctantly moved forward to let Janus in. Missouri stared at him awhile, her puzzled expression only intensified by the wrinkles on her forehead and the crow's feet at her eyes. When she spoke, it was with solemn authority.

"Yes," she mused, "I can see your problem." She looked him straight in the eye. "Demon, human, or anywhere in between, you step into this house, you follow my rules. That clear?"

Janus shrugged his consent, and she hesitantly let him in. Shutting the door behind her, she pushed past them in the hall and ducked into the kitchen.

"Just getting us some tea – I'll be back in a jiffy. You can go ahead and sit yourselves down in the living room if you like."

They all filed obediently into the living room, though no one seemed quite comfortable enough yet to sit. Dean just paced impatiently; absently, he called to their host in the kitchen.

"So how've you been, Missouri?"

"Now, Dean," she said, appearing in the doorway with a pot and several cups, "the best part of bein' a psychic is bein' able to skip the small talk. Tell me about your problem."

Briefly, Dean recapped the events of the past few days, while the tea grew cold and the others wandered off to examine thing in other rooms. At the end, Missouri thought for a moment, then stood and crossed to an ancient bookshelf and pulled out a single book, tossing it onto the coffee table.

"Can't say I've read it," he said, shrugging. "They say the story's good, though."

"The greatest ever told," she said with a smile.

"So what are you getting at?" asked Dean, picking up the Bible to flip through it.

"Better brush up on your Latin, boy," she said. "We're gonna do an exorcism."

"Hey, wait a minute," said Dean, holding up his hands to stop her. "Janus may be a demon if you squint, but he's still a part of Sam. We need him."

"Silly boy," she said with a smile. "We're not getting' rid of Janus – we're getting' rid of Lilith."


	8. Our Darkest Fifteen Minutes

Thanks for the reviews, guys. It brightens my day whenever I see one in my mailbox… :-)

The ritual was borrowed with thanks from Tajjas's fic "Children of Man".

Read, smile, and review!

**8. Our Darkest Fifteen Minutes**

"**It's always darkest just before it goes pitch black." – Unknown**

For the hundredth time, Dean flipped open the Colt's chamber and counted the bullets inside. Restless, he shook one out into his palm and toyed with it briefly, trying to calm his racing nerves with the thought that the tiny piece of metal in his hand, the one that was playing footsie with the candlelight, was made of solid silver, forged by his father's own hand, and had the juice to kill almost every beastie in the zoo. Slipping it back into place, he replaced the chamber with a spin and sat back on Missouri's overstuffed couch.

Across the room, slouched in a spindly antique chair to which he was bound with thick cord, sat Janus; at the moment, he was craning his neck and looking straight up at the ceiling, upon which had been hastily scrawled something resembling a devil's trap – at least, as much of it as Dean could remember. Clearly discontented, he let his gaze wander around the room, eventually falling on the polished gun lying on the coffee table.

"That's plan B, right?" he asked, unable to keep the nervousness from his voice.

Dean grunted in agreement, not bothering to take his eyes off the gun. Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, Janus took a deep breath.

"Tell me again about plan A."

Finally looking up, Dean leaned forward, and laced his fingers; had the situation not been so dire, he would have allowed himself a smile that would communicate without words just how much he was enjoying watching Janus squirm.

"Sure. So Missouri figures what happened is Sam had a vision, and Lilith took advantage of that; gettin' into his head was a matter of walking in the front door. But once she was in, Miss Queen Demon Bitch of all demon bitches decides she wants to extend her trip. So she makes up her own little story and keeps Sammy occupies while she pokes around inside his head."

Janus shot another look at the devil's trap looming over him. "And I'm tied to a chair because…?"

"Well, I don't trust you yet, for starters," Dean admitted. "And two, we're not really sure how this is going to play out. The plan is that I start an exorcism ritual to get Lilith in a tussy, kick up a bit of fuss; meanwhile, Missouri'll try to get into Sam's head the back way, see if she can't snap him out of it."

Janus nodded, still nervously eyeing the Colt glinting on the table. "And if everything goes to hell…"

"…then we go to plan B," finished Dean quietly.

An awkward silence followed the comment as both of them were struck by what exactly that statement entailed, but it was broken by Missouri's sudden arrival. She bustled in from the kitchen, here eyes flicking between the two boys' stony expressions. Pausing a moment, she cocked her head at Dean.

"I suggest," she said slowly, "you don't say that out loud." She jerked her head in Janus' direction. "That one knows a lot more than you might expect – might come in handy someday to be on speaking terms with him."

Janus' features curled in his signature grin, and he nodded graciously to her. Missouri gave a brief chuckle as she read his thoughts, then shooed Dean off the couch as she made to sit down. With his gaze still on Janus, Dean rose with a scowl, scooping up the Colt off the coffee table and making a point of loudly clicking back the safety. Settling into her new seat, Missouri reached across the table and pulled the worn Bible closer to her. Skimming the text, she looked up and called out to the kitchen.

"Jo, honey, be a dear and bring me the pot of tea off the stove."

A minute later, Jo appeared in the doorway, carrying the pot with a towel; ever since they'd arrived here, she'd seemed subdued, almost withdrawn, and she said nothing as she entered. Curiously, she seemed to make a special effort to avoid Janus, carefully stepping around him, a good distance from the chair. AS she set the pot down on the table, her hands started to shake, and Missouri leaned forward to steady her as she nearly dropped it.

"It's all right baby," she soothed, a motherly tongue conflicting with the puzzled look on her face. "You don't pay him no mind. You just come and sit right here beside me, all right?"

Jo did as she was told; there was a paleness to her face that both startled and confused Dean, but he stayed silent leaning against the wall in the corner by the window with his arms crossed like a sulking child. Missouri poured herself a cup of tea, took a tiny sip, then set it down.

"All righty, then" she said. "Let's get to it, people. Dean?"

Sighing, Dean closed his eyes and conjured up from his memory an afternoon, a couple years and a lifetime ago, when jobs had been scarce and they'd had all the time in the world, when Sam had sat him down and forced him to learn just one rudimentary exorcism ritual.

"_Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii._ "

In his chair, Janus started to look uncomfortable ; gripping the arms of the chair tight, he twisted his head in the early stages of a spasm as something unpleasant started to bubble to the surface. Unable to concentrate while essentially watching Sam writhe in pain, Dean averted his eyes and found Jo staring at him rather intently. Missouri's eyes were closed, and she was muttering something under her breath, but he couldn't make it out.

"_Omnis legio, omnis congregario, et secta diabolica..._ "

Without warning, Missouri lunged forward, grabbed the teapot, and, shedding the top, tossed its contents right in Jo's face. Immediately, the rhythm of Dean's chanting was broken, and he started forward.

"Missouri, what the hell…?"

Having taken the full brunt of the apparently hot tea, Jo cried out un considerable pain, falling off the couch and barely avoiding a nasty crack about the head from the corner of the coffee table. AS she lay there, spluttering and coughing, Dean noticed two things that stopped him dead in his tracks. One, of the area of skin which had sustained the scalding liquid showed no signs of burning – it wasn't even red. Two, the steam curling off her form in clouds was pitch black.

Rising from the couch, Missouri stood over the possessed girl on the ground, while 'Jo' writhed and coughed holy water from her lungs. When she finally managed to compose herself, she stared up at Missouri with eyes full of hate an resentment – and completely devoid of color.

"Get out of the Winchester boy," Missouri ordered sternly.

Behind her, Dean stood in stunned shock, staring into those blank white eyes, the same eyes that had been the subject of his nightmares for moths. Here she was. Lilith herself. Here. In this living room. In Jo. Hesitantly, he brought the Colt up to bear on her. Every ounce of him seemed in contest with itself. His head urged him to finish the hunt, while his heart begged him to reconsider. On the floor, Lilith gave a cheeky smile.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked sweetly.

Hands on her hips, Missouri scoffed. "Girl, your soul smells like ashes and burnt skin. How was I supposed to not notice a thing like that?"

Suddenly, Lilith's eyes flicked to meet Dean's dazed stare; immediately a shiver went through him, and his hands started to shake. HE tried to steady his grip on the Colt, but his palms were slick with sweat. Seeing his reaction, Lilith cocked her head and feigned a look of sickly sweet compassion.

"Awww, look at you, Dean," she said mockingly. "You lived through forty years in the Pit, but three months topside has you wetting your pants? What a shame." She smiled a smile that showed to many teeth, like a salesman trying much too hard to be your friend. "Why don't you just come home? Uncle Alastair misses you so much…"

"Shut up," ordered Dean, his voice wavering and undermining his authority.

"Oh, poor Dean," she cooed. "Don't be bashful! You were his favorite nephew! Perfect to continue the family business. You always did want a replacement for you father, didn't you?"

"I said shut up," Dean snapped, brandishing the Colt wildly. It was all coming back to him, all the things he had done, every mutilated soul, the heat of the rack, his own laughter…

Lilith faked sympathy. "All right, Dean, big bad Lilith will leave you alone for now," she conceded. With a slow deliberate move, she turned to look pointedly at Missouri, still standing over her. "In the meantime, this kitchen witch has spoiled my fun. We can't have that, now can we?"

At that moment, the hall lights started to flicker and die. A cool, gentle breeze came out of nowhere and snuffed out the candles with a quiet sigh. Very, very faintly, Dean felt the room around him start to vibrate. His mind immediately leapt to one conclusion, but that was quickly dashed, as Lilith wore the same puzzled expression he did. Then, as if from far away, he heard the wailing keen start in the back of his head, building by the second, and it all became clear. He had just enough time to lunge across the room, throwing himself over Janus as a shield—

--and in a explosion of splintering wood, clouds of plaster dust, and a flurry of feathered black wings, three grigori crashed straight through the living room ceiling.


	9. Send in the Clowns

**9. Send in the Clowns**

"**You are only as sick as your darkest secret." – Unknown**

_With a discontented sigh, Sam continued on down the deserted street, marveling at the familiarity of the houses around him. He was trying to find one in particular, the proud white clapboard structure where, oh so many years ago, all of this had started; however, on closer inspection, the street signs had turned out to be blank, and it had been so long since he'd last been home…_

"_So this… is where… you used… to live?" Lindsay asked between enthusiastic licks at an ice cream cone she held in her hand._

_Since his abrupt return to this world, he'd found Lindsay alive and well, and the little girl had never left his side since, accompanying him on a self-led tour of Lawrence as Sam desperately sought someone who could tell him what the hell was going on. Their search had proved futile, though; the city showed every sign of being abandoned. Doors to houses hung ajar, revealing tables laden with half-eaten meals and TVs still murmuring programs no one was there to watch. Vehicles sat dead like beached whales up and down the streets; a few blocks back, they'd discovered an ice cream truck, from which Lindsay had acquired her snack. In the summer heat, the ice cream had already been mushy, and it was melting fast, running over her clenched fingers in sugary veins she was more than happy to lick away._

"_A long time ago," he answered her absently._

_They reached the end of the road, and Sam peered down the intersecting street hopefully, but none of the houses that he could see were the one he was looking for. Disappointment filling him, just as it had the last thirty times he'd done this, he finally gave up. Scouting the road, he picked a light blue home across the way, its door open to comfort his conscience, and made for it._

"_Come on," he said. "Let's take a break."_

_She followed him obediently inside, ignoring the messy trail of dripping ice cream she left as they wandered through the house. The owner had obviously been a devoted Christian; The Last Supper hung over the mantel in the living room, and crosses loomed from the walls in almost every room. Nearly every available surface was covered in piles of scripture, religious artifacts, and other paraphernalia. Sam relaxed a little, thinking to himself with bad grace that this house was looking like a pretty good metaphor for his life these days. On a more serious note, perhaps he could find something here of use to him. Lindsay, on the other hand, seemed cowed, glancing around at the contents of the room nervously._

"_Are you sure we're supposed to be here?" she asked, uncertain._

"_Sure," Sam assured her, pointing out with a small smile, "you didn't seem so worried when we stole the ice cream."_

"_Well, no one else woulda wanted that," she argued. "Somebody might come back and want to live here."_

"_I don't think so," he said, turning into another room that turned out to be the kitchen. Crossing to the fridge, he opened it and browsed the shelves; his eyes lit up as he spotted something he liked._

"_Juicy Juice!" he cried in mock excitement. "Want some?"_

"_Yes, please," she answered sweetly. "Ice cream always makes me thirsty."_

_In the cabinets, he found two glasses, and in the freezer, plenty of ice. Turning, he handed her one, then leaned against the counter, sipping at it reflectively._

"_My mommy buys this special just for me," Lindsay declared proudly._

_Sam watched her for a moment, unsure of what to say. Considering Lindsay was unaware she was dead, he felt awkward ignoring the fact, and yet breaking the news to such a young child would be difficult. The only grieving person he'd had to sincerely comfort was Dean, and, though he acted like it sometimes, Dean was anything but a little girl. Not to mention he was at the moment trying to help the person who was from the other end of six feet under._

"_Tell me about your family again," prompted Lindsay._

"_Well," started Sam, letting out a slow breath, "there's me, my older brother Dean…" He briefly toyed with the idea of introducing the subject by noting that both he and Dean had died once and it was really not that bad, but he decided against it._

"_What about your mommy?"_

"_She died when I was really young, right here in Lawrence."_

_Lindsay was surprisingly somber for one her age._

"_So no Juicy Juice?" she clarified._

"_No Juicy Juice."_

_She nodded, then took a sip of her own juice. Suddenly, she dropped the glass, letting it smash to pieces on the tiled floor. With a scream of pain, a cloud of white steam billowed from her throat, and her eyes flickered to match. Falling to her knees, she saw, laying among the shards of the broken glass and shattered ice cubes, a single tiny silver cross, a pendant Sam had purloined from one of the many rosaries about the house. Sam casually finished his juice, set the glass down, and then turned to her._

"_Lilith," he addressed her simply. The raw hate in his voice was a tangible thing. "A little blond girl – I should have spotted that sooner. You sure as hell weren't a ghost. No ghost would _touch_ ice cream – waaaaaay too much salt. But there was still something off about you."_

_She gasped for breath, coughing violently to rid herself of the irritant._

"_So what is it with you and little girls, hmmm?" he asked with menace, squatting down to her level. "Why invent the sob story?"_

"_Because you're a sucker for a good cry, Sammy," she spat. "No. I didn't have to make it up, Sam dear. You see, when you die, your soul – it's pretty much stuck at that age forever. So when little Lindsay got tricked into killing herself and got sent to hell, her soul was stuck at what – six? – for ever and ever. Just like all the other dead kids." She looked away for a moment. "Just like me."_

_Sam stood, frozen. Looking up at him, Lilith smiled._

"_Awwww, Sammy, you sweet little boy, are you feeling sorry for an old demon like me? Dean would be ashamed."_

_That reminded him. "So what now?" he asked, standing over her despite the fact that he had lost the upper hand. "You keep me here forever? What do you want from me?"_

_She was halfway into another grin before it suddenly died. Looking down at herself, both she and Sam watched in astonishment as, like a TV with poor reception, her image started to flicker and hum. Sighing in exasperation, she threw a look full of daggers at him with her blank eyes._

"_This isn't over, Winchester," she growled savagely._

_Before she could say anything else, she seemed to dissolve, her small form collapsing into a familiar thick black smoke that rocketed out of the kitchen, through the living room, and out the door. Sam followed the trail at a run, peeling out of the house and down the walk; he stopped in the middle of the street, craning his neck to watch as, to his surprise, the substance curled up into the sky and evanesced._

_Then, without warning, someone turned out all the lights in the world. The sunny street was replaced with a dark void, and he was lost again. He went to cry out as he felt someone behind him, but they clapped a hand over his mouth and caught him up in a tight embrace._

"_Long time, no see, Sammyboy," Janus whispered in his ear. "Did you miss me?"_

SUPERNATURAL SUPERNATURAL SUPERNATURAL SUPERNATURAL

Flinging wood splinters and debris off himself, Dean leapt to his feet. Instinctually, he went for the Colt, lying a few feet away on the floor; snatching it up, he brought it immediately to bear on the grigori who had so abruptly invaded Missouri's home. Briefly, he wondered at their appearance, which was a far cry from the last fallen angel they'd met; their bodies were close enough to those of men, but at least in this state they seemed emaciated, to little skin stretched over too many bones. Their clothes were ragged, but had clearly once been suits of some variety. Most prominent were their wings; Dean had never seen an angel's wings, but he was fairly confident that these were far from fine examples. Like the rest of them, they appeared worn, hanging limp and covered in unkempt feathers which in turn looked to be coated in something the color and consistency of hot tar. And their eyes…!

Seeing the threat Dean posed to them, they screamed in inhuman voices and lunged for him, taloned feet outstretched. He managed to fire off a shot or two before he had to duck, but it seemed to have no effect; the first grigori slammed into the wall full force, its talons gouging enormous holes in the drywall. Screeching, it beat its wings madly and pulled a foot free from the wall, striking out and landing Dean a good blow about the head. He lost his grip on the Colt as he flew four feet and slammed into the bookshelf, feeling the hot line of a cut open up over his eye even as he defended himself from cascading books.

Once the avalanche was over, he rolled to the side, ignoring the complaints of his ribs, expecting the grigori to pursue him further, but he realized too late who their true target was. With their guttural screams, they fell upon Janus, who had somehow freed himself and was scrambling across the room for the door. Dean was poised to shout orders to him when he suddenly felt his voice stick in his throat. Breathless, he staggered back, coughing hard into his hands; through the cloud of dust, he could see Lilith advancing, her hand outstretched. Hacking, he caught a glimpse of a white wisp come up from his throat and dissipate. Lilith smiled triumphantly.

"I own your soul, Dean," she called to him. "Give it back to me before it gets broken."

* * *

Meanwhile, Janus was trying to dodge the onslaught of all three grigori, but it seemed hopeless; not even solid walls could deter the enraged creatures. Through their war cries and the cacophony of their carnage, he heard a strangled yelp and, thanks to Sam's instincts, knew Dean needed his help. With the hall in ruins, the only point of entry he could think of was the similarly created hole in the living room ceiling. He sprinted for the stairs, hearing the raging grigori pursue him; he was only halfway up the flight when one crashed through the wall in front of him in a shower of debris, blocking off his escape.

Knowing the danger was now both behind and before him, Janus had a split second to contemplate his options; he saw one way out of this, but hesitated. Sam had made it very clear that their gift was only to be used on demons. At the moment, however, survival instincts overcame. He could squabble with Sam later about what constituted a demon – or not. So what if Sam wouldn't ever do this? That was the whole reason he was here – to do what needed to be done that Sam wouldn't do.

Concentrating, he raised his hand before him and started to exert his will. The grigori stopped froze, and gave several indignant shudders as he got a bead on their souls. He began to pound against the spirits, trying to knock them from their bodies, pouring everything he could into the task. Stunned momentarily, the grigori fell back, unsure how to handle the new threat; this hesitation gave him just enough time, as Sam's damned conscience kicked in, to redirect his power. He was just starting to feel Lilith's soul budge from Jo's body before they were on him again, screeching, striking, tearing. Despite the immediate danger, Janus continued his remote assault, doing little more than raising an arm above his head to protect Sam's baby face what was quickly swatted away with a snap that made even him jump. Nonetheless, feeling his will falter, he tried to shake her from her host, when suddenly, it became too easy. It felt as if he'd been trying to lift a hundred pound weight, and then someone had come along and helped him hoist it high.

At the foot of the stairs, the front door banged open and a searing, blinding light poured in. Exposed to the light, the grigori howled with pain and floundered, crashing up through the ceiling to avoid the holy glare. As if from a great distance, he heard Lilith's exasperated scream as she fled Jo's body in a plume of smoke. The last thing Janus saw was the figure of Castiel, silhouetted in the doorway by his own brilliance.

His world went white.

* * *

In the living room, Dean's world slowly reassembled itself. Shaking his head, he pushed himself up off the ground on one elbow, blinking and staring at the collateral damage left behind by the grigori. Rubble covered every surface, lying in dusty heaps that were just beginning to settle. The light at the center of the room sparked wildly in electric death throes, and water trickled down on them through the gaping hole in the roof. Blinking furiously and rubbing his eyes, he picked out two other forms among the rubble. Missouri was lying next to the couch, unconscious but apparently unhurt. Jo lay a little closer to him, still coughing weakly from her holy water ordeal. More alert, he scanned the room for Janus with no luck.

There came a noise from the front hall – footsteps.

With some difficulty, Dean struggled to his feet, and catching a glint of metal in the debris, grabbed the Colt. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway, his expression one of anger and his tone one of urgency.

"I warned you," growled Castiel. "I warned you this would happen."

"Well if you knew it was gonna happen, then why weren't you doing your holy duty and keeping an eye on me?" Dean argued, exasperated. "Bang up job, Cas."

"I was doing my holy duty, as you say," he said, "a few hours away – where you were supposed to be tonight."

"I'll make sure you get the memo next time," said Dean. "Where's Janus at, anyway?"

Castiel wrinkled his brow. "Janus?" he repeated, questioning.

Dean's stomach dropped out as he heard a faint gurgling sound from beyond Cas. Slipping past the angel in the doorway, he strode to the front door, then glanced around. His eyes followed several trails of crimson that had run down each stair to the bottom to fall on a sad, broken figure lying about halfway up what was left of the flight. Taking the stairs two at a time, he knelt down beside the punished, bleeding form as he stirred with a faint moan. Quickly taking stock of the damage, Dean was filled with urgency by what he saw; most of the trouble consisted of small to moderate gashes left by flailing talons. His left arm hung at an impossible angle that it hurt Dean to even look at, and her was sure by the ragged breaths he heard that several ribs were likely in pieces.

"No," he breathed quietly. "No, no, no…"

He was startled by a quiet rasp, a weak and ragged voice with a note of innocence that it seemed he hadn't heard in forever. Looking up, he watched his brother's eyelids flutter open, revealing two clear, if somewhat pained, brown eyes.

"Dean?" came Sam's ghost of a whisper.


	10. Divine Fallout

So sorry for the wait guys - between vacation and laziness, things have really gotten out of hand. Here's and extra long one for those of you still hanging in there, and I _promise _the next update will be prompt.

In the unlikely event you're still there, read, smile, and review!

**10. Divine Fallout**

"**We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves." – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe**

"Well, Mr. Walsh, it seems as if you've had quite a day," observed Dr. Muehler. Reading off a clipboard in her hand, she starting listing off his various ailments. "Four fractured ribs a broken arm, and a number of moderate lacerations to the head, arms, and torso." She flipped through the pages with raised eyebrows. "And you say this happened while you were…?"

She was dark-haired and fairly attractive, but even though the certificate on the wall claimed she was only a few years into her residency, worry creases and smile lines alike made her appear much older. Nonetheless, it was a testament to the seriousness of their situation that Dean hadn't tried to get her number yet. Instead the older Winchester paced at the end of the bed, running a hand through his hair repetitively from nerves; he jumped at the question when it arose.

"Spelunking," Dean finished. "You know, cave-diving?"

She looked up from her clipboard with an incredulous look her eye. "That must have been quite a spelunk."

"Yeah," said Dean, trying for a good-natured smile. "Sammy here took a bit of a tumble."

Sam shook his head a little and looked away. He understood Dean was overtired, overworked, and overstressed, and yet he would be willing to wager that, even as drugged up as he was, he could have come up with a better cover story on the fly. However, considering Dean had spent their brief ride to Lawrence Memorial Hospital trying to make sure his insides and his bones stayed put – sometimes by force – he was willing to cut his brother a little slack.

Luckily, the doctor seemed to be in a similar state as Dean, and, to Sam's surprise, she seemed content to let the matter drop.

"Well, considering your injuries, I'd say we'll have the pleasure of your company for a week or so," she continued casually.

"What?" exclaimed Dean, leaning on the bedpost as he tried to fathom the statement. "A _week_?"

"A _week_?" repeated Sam; though he was sure he and Dean were opposed to the break for different reasons, he enjoyed the feeling of being on the same side – if only for a minute.

Dr. Muehler looked from one Winchester to the other with a curious expression. "Of course. I'd like to keep him longer than that, actually, but without insurance, that could get very expensive." She cocked her head to the side. "Have another spelunking adventure planned, do you?"

"Not if I can help it," said Dean, shooting a knowing look at Sam.

"Good," acknowledged Dr. Muehler, her eyes continuing to flick between the two of them; they eventually settled on Dean. "If you don't mind, Mr. Walsh, I'd like to ask your brother a few questions."

Dean looked less than thrilled but he waved for her to proceed. "Make it quick, please, doctor; he should get some rest."

She smiled a smile smile as if at a private joke.

"They're of a nature…" she started, and Dean raised his eyebrows. "I'd rather discuss them with Sam… alone."

Dean started to argue, but Sam jumped in before he could finish.

"Go ahead, Dean," he said quietly, sending thanks upstairs for the chance to delay the talk with Dean he knew was inevitable. Then he remembered who exactly "upstairs" entailed and immediately thought better of it. "I can take care of myself."

At these words, Dean stared at him like he'd been slapped in the face. After a minute, he seemed to recover; sighing, he brushed past Dr. Muehler, making a point of aiming a strategic glance at Sam as he went that clearly mean they were going to have a serious talk later. Peeking out into the hall to check his progress, she closed the door with a quiet click behind him. Sam watched with growing confusion as she dragged a chair from the corner over to his bedside and took a seat. Once more, she started flipping through his file.

"I noticed a few things when I was looking over your x-rays," she started, pulling several wobbly black transparencies from the folder. Rising, she crossed to the far wall, flipped on a tarnished light box, and stuck the x-rays to it. After a few cautious flickers, the light illuminated the images; the white structures they depicted looked comically like puzzles, and, especially with the painkillers, he was a little fuzzy on what went where. The doctor pointed out several spots as she continued.

"These fractures are easy to recognize," she said. "To cause these unique break patterns you need something small and hard… something like a fire poker or a tire iron. And your arm… see the mark on the bone here. Suggestive of a similar weapon." She looked back at him. "These are defensive wounds, Sam. This wasn't an accident."

Sam just lay there, silent. Even if he wanted to explain the situation to her, he couldn't; he hadn't been quite conscious during Janus's little escapade.

"Your brother seems like he cares about you a lot," she said, abruptly changing the subject.

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a little grin. "Older brother instinct, I guess."

"You two get along well?" she asked.

The oddity of the question threw him.

"Uh… I guess so," he replied. "Not so much lately—"

"Any fights recently?"

"No," he said. "Look, what are you trying to get at?"

She sighed and returned to her chair. "Your brother seems very protective of you. He disapproves of your activities. You have sleeping pills and antidepressants in you system, and your x-rays show years of odd injuries and breaks." She crossed her arms. "Sam, has Dean ever hit you?"

Sam's brain reeled. _"What?"_

You don't have to feel ashamed about it," she said quickly. "Men are abused just as much as women – and this isn't the first time I've seen it coming from an older brother. It's about dominance, you see –"

Sam wanted to laugh, but he knew from experience it would hurt. "Dean is _not _beating on me," he assured her honestly.

She shot him a disbelieving look. "Sam."

"No, really," he insisted. "Dean's saved my neck ever since we were kids. All of this—" he gestured weakly with his good hand to his generally unwell state, "—is all from my… spelunking."

The doctor watched him for another minute.

"Well, have you considered giving up spelunking?" she suggested finally. "If it's taking this much of a toll on you – and your brother as well, I expect – I don't think it's worth it, do you?"

Briefly the shadow of a feeling passed through him – the feeling of dragging Lilith's soul out of Jo's body. That influx of power, the rush of pure adrenaline, drifted back to him, warming his fingertips and reminding him distantly of the way that level of triumph had tasted. Lying back on the pillows, he let out a long, slow breath.

"It will be."

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURALSUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

_The hospital was warm and quiet at night, the only sounds the quiet beeps and whistles of the monitoring equipment that Dean had been glued to since they'd arrived. Sam lay and stared at the ceiling, willing his eyes to stay open despite the multiple doses of painkillers and sedatives Dean had insisted the nurses give him before lights out and the med station closed. Exhaustion pulled at the back of his eyes, begging him to at least blink, but he couldn't… he wouldn't…_

_Just then, a little voice drifted to him as if from a great distance._

_"Sam…"_

_It was less than a whisper, more of a sigh with a shape. Something cold settled in his stomach as the jaunting voice continued, singing a little tune to itself, and he recognized it._

_"Sammyboy, oh Sammyboy, wherefore art thou, Sammyboy?"_

_"No," he breathed._

_"Ah, there's my darling little angel," cooed the voice, still without body but quite close by now. "Whoops – I mean darling little demon. Sorry, dear – with all the company about, I get so confused…"_

_"Get out of my head," he ordered the plaster ceiling firmly. "I don't need you anymore."_

_"Oh, au contraire, little Sammy, you need me now more than ever," hissed Janus with glee. "Because I know what you want, and it's something Dean won't let you have: Lilith."_

_Sam lay there, his breath quickening, slicing at his insides. Desperate, he looked towards the door, where Dean had been sitting watch for the last few hours; however, the chair was now empty. Confused, a little giggle brought his attention back to the ceiling – its apparent source – and he almost screamed._

_He was there on the ceiling, shotgun and all, his chest torn to shreds, eyes frozen wide in eternal shock. He gave a little gurgle, and blood bubbled up out of nowhere, falling from his lips in even, agonizing drops that hit him on the forehead, just like before._

_Plip._

_"You know what they can do, Sam… what they _will_ do…"_

_Plip._

_"I can help, I swear. I want this as much as you do."_

_Plip._

_"So for the both of us – I'm going to make this right…"_

_The room dissolved into flames._

With a great gasping breath, Sam sat bolt upright, his eyes flying open; the pain immediately robbed him of air, and his breath came sharp and shallow to make up for the loss. In a second, Dean was by his side, having nearly shot a spray of shotgun pellets at the door in surprise.

"Take it easy, Sammy," he said, trying for a soothing tone but achieving something much more authoritative. "Just take it easy. You're okay… it was just a nightmare."

"It's… never… _just_… a…. night….mare!" his brother managed between breaths. "I… told… you… not … to… let… me … fall… asleep!"

"Sam, you need to _rest_, to take care of yourself. I can't do this job alone, and it needs to be done yesterday."

Sam took a moment to collect himself. "I'm serious, Dean. I'm… I'm not strong enough… to keep him locked inside my head…"

Dean, knowing an argument at the moment wouldn't be a fair fight, deftly ignored the reference ad much as he could. "Well, I'm not going anywhere. Go back to sleep. Nothing's going to get to you, I promise."

"You can't protect me from myself," he said.

"Oh, very deep," he said with sarcasm. "Go back to sleep, Sasquatch."

Sam turned over in the bed with a few deep breaths as his ribs shifted, then he appeared to take Dean's advice. Silently falling to pieces behind Sam's back, he set the shotgun on the bedside table before he did any serious damage and stepped into the room's tiny bathroom. Gripping the wheelchair accessibility bar with a shaking hand, he took steady breaths to clam racing nerves. Sam was fine. He was fine. He found he needed reassuring, and told himself again. Running the cold tap, he scooped up some water and wet his face, trying to wash away everything he'd been feeling in the last few days. He eyed his reflection in the mirror and tried to remember what it was like to be a soldier, running around after his father with no thought to himself. The again, his father hadn't decided to tear his soul in two to cope with his loss…

At that moment, he noticed something in the corner of the sterile mirror; it had started at the very top tip of the panel, but was quickly growing in size, forming hard mass out of thin air before his eyes and slowly taking over the mirror. Reaching out, he touched the strange substance; feeling the cold melt beneath his fingertips, he remembered Jo's account of what had happened at the hotel room before Castiel had spirited her and Missouri from the ruins of the house.

It was ice.

In a second, he was by the bedside, grabbing the shotgun and training it on the figure in the bed. At the click of the safety, Sam's body tensed, and he rolled over slowly, revealing black eyes, glittering with malice.

"Nice try," said Dean.

"I had you going for a minute there," Janus said with obvious pride. "I'm getting better at playing Sammy."

Dean ignored this; he didn't want to think how many times in the last few months Sam had not really been _Sam_. "So what now? You hoof it out the window while I watch?"

"Well, unless you're going to shoot me," said Janus with a grin. "You won't, though. I know. You just can't work up the guts to put this sick puppy out of his mis—"

Without warning, Janus let out his breath in a peaceful little sigh and went limp, falling back on the bed; his eyes rolled crazily, shifting from all black to all white until finally, human irises rolled into view and the lids slid shut. Dean spluttered indignantly at the figure revealed to be standing behind him as he pulled the coarse hospital blanket over Sam's motionless form in a somewhat motherly fashion that seemed out of place coming from him.

"What was _that_?"

Cas looked up with the same solemn expression and spoke the same words that seemed to open all of their conversations. "We need to talk, Dean."

"Damn straight," Dean retorted.

"Before you begin complaining, you might be pleased to know that your friends are safe," he said, holding up a hand to temporarily stem the tide of verbal abuse. "The girl, Johanna, is a little shaken by her ordeal, but she seems unaffected by the possession."

Dean didn't know what to say. He knew he should thank Cas, but he didn't feel in a thankful mood at the moment.

"You wanted to talk, so let's talk," he started. "Let's start with you telling me why you didn't tell me they were after Sam."

"Dean—"

"They could have killed him," Dean raged. "This job's put him in the hospital twice inside a week. We've got pissed off angels-on-the-outs on our tail, not to mention a certain psychotic little demon queen. Now, I know I'm not usually one for seeing the big picture, but you're going to have to give me some answers, cause I'm not seeing how any of this is gonna help us."

"We weren't sure they were truly after your brother," said Cas mildly. "Considering all the activities he's been involved in lately, we couldn't be sure—"

"'We' being you and your angel buddies?" said Dean. "Like I always say, Cas: bang up job."

"Angels have their advantages," Cas said. Moving off to stand by the window, he motioned for Dean to join him, parting the cheap plastic shades with a finger as he approached. Hesitantly, Dean peered through the gap to find two winged figures perched on the roof of the building across the street, silhouetted in the growing dawn.

"A few angels of a lower order," explained Cas coolly. "For protection until Sam is well enough to join the hunt again. God is gracious."

"He's _something_," said Dean, straightening and returning to his seat by Sam's side. His brother slept deeply – the peaceful look on his face both worried and intrigued him. "What did you do to Sam, anyhow?"

"You mean Janus?" said Castiel quietly.

Dean spun. "You know about Janus?"

"I knew about him before you did – before Sam did, in fact," Castiel said. "What happened to your brother – it's been coming for a long time. As a benefit, we've had a little while to find out how to… _counteract _him."

Dean half-liked the sound of this. "Are you saying you can send him back to… wherever?"

Castiel sighed. "The method is imperfect. I've been trying to figure out how to do it these last few months, but between keeping an eye on you and the grigori…"

Dean studied the angel for a moment.

"I'll make you a deal," he said at last.

"I'm not a demon, Dean," said Cas, clearly offended. "I don't make deals."

"Call it what you like. Bottom line – you give Sam a week to get back on his feet. Then I swear we'll be back hunting down the grigori. I can keep an eye on Sam – and you find a way to get rid of Janus."

Castiel looked back at him from the window. He watched Dean for a minute, as if he were trying to figure out what he was thinking. If Cas actually got a look into his head one day, Dean mused, _he _would probably be the one with his eyes burned out.

"You have two weeks," Cas said. "Finish the job, and I will find a way to free your brother."


	11. Catalyst

The next two chapters were originally supposed to be just one, but after a week of trying to make it all fit in one, I gave in. I hope you enjoy both of them...

This baby is getting towards the end. Only three or four more chapters after this and, for better or for worse, this monster will be complete!

Read, smile, and review!

**11. Catalyst**

"**And whether that my angel be turned fiend**

**Suspect I may, but not directly tell;**

**But being both from me, both to each a friend,**

**I guess one angel in another's hell.**

**Yet this I never know, but live in doubt**

**Till my bad angel fire my good one out"**

**-- Shakespeare, Sonnet 144**

_In a room in a high place, the lights flicker, go out. Footsteps on the stairs – somebody yelling._

"_Sam? SAM!"_

_A door bangs open, and he's there, running, gunning, but too late. Heavy and sharp, talons around his throat. A second's release – he tries to flee, but they find him again, grasp him tight and drag him towards perdition. Glass shatters into a new universe of misunderstanding, falling with him through fog. Tarred wings rustle in the plunge amidst a whispered prayer. _

_He closes his eyes and unfurls his mistakes in an explosion of corrupting power._

* * *

"… it was the HEAT OF THE MOMENT, telling me what my heart meant!"

Sam jerked awake with a start. With a little gasp, he sat up straight and instantly regretted it. Holding his bound ribs in place, he frantically scanned the small motel room for Dean; he found him slumped in a folding chair by the window, poring over stacks of books, newspapers, and Sam's beloved and worn laptop. He looked up at the music as well, observing Sam's distress, and gave a small smile.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," he reminisced. "Don't worry. It's not Tuesday – I swear."

Collecting himself, Sam rubbed at his eyes, rolled over, and exchanged blows with the cheerfully singing alarm clock until it skipped and spluttered into obedient silence. Dean's expression darkened a little, and he realized he'd forgotten to laugh.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He blinked a few times, shaking his head. As an afterthought, under his breath, he added, "just lollipops and candy canes."

For the first few days after being released from the hospital, he'd been pleasantly surprised by his lack of visions; his dreams consisted of nothing more than a blank screen – and watching the gray fuzzy channel had never felt so good. It felt like, up until the attack, he'd been holding his breath, a pressure building in his chest as he slowly asphyxiated, until suddenly, he'd just let it out. A tremendous relaxation had found him for the first time in months, a state which, while not altogether conducive to hunting angry fallen angels, pleased Dean.

And then, unbeknownst to Dean, it had started all over again – at first, just a faint twinge in his gut he'd passed off as complaining ribs. Then the twinge grew to include a headache, the headache gave way to a pressure; even now he could feel it, gathered in his chest, expanding, looking for a way out. It was bigger than before, more concentrated; and worst of all, he knew its name.

Returning to the present, he tried to ignore the quiet giggling in the back of his mind. Dean was eyeing him with curiosity, so, like a true Winchester, Sam changed the subject.

"So where are we headed next?"

Holding his gaze for a second longer than was necessary, Dean finally turned back to the open laptop. "I think we might actually be ahead of them by a bit. The trail went cold two towns back, but it picks up again here." He turned the device so Sam, slowly working on getting out of bed, could see. "Nice big church on the outskirts of Wichita. Went from a little one-room when the area was settled to a huge construction project in the fifties and sixties. As things in the area went bad, so did the building, and nobody felt the holy spirit enough to keep the place up. By now it's pretty much abandoned. If we take our field trip at night, there should be nobody there, which could be a plus if things go south."

"What makes you think they'll even go there?"

"It's pretty defendable, private, and reasonably priced at nada a night," Dean said with a snort. "Seems like their kind of place."

Sam approached and squinted to make out the photo on the laptop's screen. The pictured building had probably been magnificent in its prime, but many years of abuse had reduced it to something less than impressive, almost unsettling; it loomed from the midst of rotting buildings, making you immediately want to duck your head and walk quickly away, thinking of happier things – the kind of place that didn't just attract their quarry, but them as well. His eyes climbed the old bell tower, lingering for a moment on the handsome stained-glass window set into the front wall that appeared to be its only redeeming feature.

_Glass shatters into a new universe of misunderstanding, falling with him through fog…_

Dean shut the laptop with a snap and stood up, stretching while Sam's gut started kicking him in the ribs.

"We best be goin' – I got a laundry list of supplies we gotta pick up on the way, and we have to have all our mojo laid out before they get there." He crossed to a packed duffel by the door and slung it over his shoulder, opening the door. "Ass in seat in ten," said Dean, turning to leave.

Sam sat transfixed, his mind racing.

_He closes his eyes and unfurls his mistakes in an explosion of corrupting power._

"That means move, gimpy."

Snapping back to the present, Sam gave him a dirty look, and he grinned as he left.

"Bitch."

"Jerk," he returned quietly.

SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURALSUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL

"Dean?"

Dean almost jumped at the sudden address – he'd not even heard his brother come in. As Sam's voice echoed eerily around the high-ceilinged room, he stood and, careful not to disturb the figures of drying paint and pig's blood on the floor, made his way over to the center aisle formed by the pews and watched Sam approach.

"So how's the mojo coming?"

Gesturing, Dean admired his work – several rather artistic scrawlings on the chapel floor that all their research and Castiel, their expert on the subject, had assured them would work like a devil's trap to the grigori. Stopping a few feet away, Sam looked back and forth between his own creation and the one the angel had sketched in his journal a week ago, savoring the resemblance.

"I have Cas's 'angel's trap' all laid out," he said, pushing up his sleeves and trying to ignore the smell of the pig's blood that he was covered in up to his elbows. "If we're lucky, this thing'll do its job, and we can just call Cas and finally put this one to bed."

He resisted the urge to reveal the other reason for his celebration – he wasn't sure how Sam would take the news of Janus' banishment. On the one hand, he'd kept Janus from him for some time, and in that time hadn't seemed overly worried about the ramifications; in that case, Janus would be something Dean was taking away from him. On the other hand, of late, he'd seemed well aware of the consequences of Janus' actions, and yet, the last thing Dean wanted was to get his brother's hopes up for nothing if it was just another one of heaven's shams.

Sighing, Sam sat heavily on a nearby pew; he pulled out a nine millimeter and started toying with it – checking the chamber, working the safety, checking that the silver bullets Dean had mass-produced while he'd recovered were all in place. The cast on his left arm was only visible where it poked out from the sleeve of his sweatshirt, the plaster curling between his thumb and pointer finger, a simple but annoying feature that made it impossible for him to carry two weapons.

"Hey, easy there, cowboy," Dean cautioned, watching Sam's restless behavior. "I want a piece of these things too, but we gotta take our time on this one, do it by the book. We just stick with the plan, and everyone walks away clean."

"Right," said Sam, hardly trying to keep the melancholy note out of his voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean said. "Look Sam, you've been off all day; don't think I don't see it. Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine, Dean," he assured him for the thousandth time. It disturbed and saddened him how easy it had become these days for him to lie to Dean. "It's just—"

There came the scrape of metal on metal and an unsettling creaking as the doors to the chapel started slowly to open. Dean grabbed their duffel off the first pew and ran quietly towards the front of the room; frantically, he gestured for Sam to hide, he himself taking shelter behind a moonlit statue of the virgin Mary. Casting around, Sam's eyes fell on a door; praying it was unlocked, he found it to be so and let himself through just as voices drifted to him from the far end of the church. He closed the door enough to hide himself, but left it slightly ajar in order to make out the conversation taking place.

"…quite a fitting place, don't you think, Arakiel? Meant to serve God, but abandoned by him."

In comparison, the first voice was that of a young man's, but the one that answered it was definitely older.

"Do not speak ill of the house of our Father," it chastised. "Though others may have forsaken it, it is not beyond repair. Small acts of redemption over time could restore what it once was, I am sure of it."

There was a brief pause where all that could be heard was footsteps – fancy shoes on the stone floor. From his vantage point, Sam could see both the now trapped Dean and the approaching figures. The first to come into his line of sight was aged and tired, in his early forties and showing it – and yet his eyes were keen and full of life and insight, and he carried himself to appear more broad than he was – clearly the owner of the second voice. The one who followed was, as their timbres had betrayed, younger and more agile, more resembling Cas than anyone. Both were clad in standard office attire, ties and trenchcoats – the apparent dress code of heaven – though their threads were worn and obviously patched from many years of service. Sam watched as the older one turned back as if searching for something he'd lost.

"Ramiel?"

"Here, Arak." A third voice joined them , and, momentarily, another figure. Both were obviously fatigued and stressed. The man couldn't have been older than Sam, and yet his shoulders sagged with the weight of the world. His trenchcoat made him appear bulkier than he was, but as he moved into view, it was clear from his gait that he was piteously underweight, as if 'good meal' was not a phrase that had appeared in his personal dictionary for quite some time. Most of all, he couldn't help but notice the dark bags beneath his eyes, changing his look from harassed to brooding. His eyes were a peculiar shade of golden brown, and gleamed with something that switched between begging for release and hidden intuition depending on the light.

'Arakiel' put a hand on his shoulder and helped him forward. "You are the reason we are here," he said softly, not an accusation, but a fact. "Now, then – where did the vision you sent to the Winchester boy take place?"

Sam's stomach turned to ice. He tried to avoid Dean's accusing eyes as his older brother turned to glare at him from behind the statue.

"Only in part," Ramiel said wearily. "It came on so quickly – I was unable to warn him completely before it had gone. But it started here, in this room."

"You did explore it, didn't you?" the second one asked.

The younger Ramiel shot him a look – a strange sight to see coming from the features of an angel.

"No, Samiel, I am so exhausted from simply fretting over the outcome," he said. "Of course I explored it. If you move a few steps forward, you should find a rather poorly depicted trap for us painted on the floor in swine's blood."

Dean's face was caught between an expression of surprise at their knowledge and faked hurt at their description of it. He looked to Sam with inquiry on his features. Sam shrugged and looked between him and the grigori, trying to think of a solution.

"Ah yes, I see it now," Samiel said mockingly. "If his aim is as steady as his brushwork, we should have little to fear."

"As was demonstrated at the medium's home, I think we can agree the angels' champion is of little concern to us," Arakiel cut in smoothly. "The demons' chosen is our problem." He turned back to Ramiel. "Any idea where he might be?"

"I'm unsure exactly where," Ramiel answered, stepping deftly around the trap and moving closer to them, "but I would guess that he were somewhere very, very…"

He moved past Mary's statue without a glance, and, putting a hand to the door, pushed it open. His eyes fell immediately on Sam, who sat, rooted to the spot in shock and uncertainty; he gazed down at his crouching form with a bemused expression.

"…close," he finished quietly.

In a sudden explosion of movement, Dean rose from behind the statue and let off several shots. Ramiel jerked backward with the force of their impact, and, in a gust of wind and a rustle of opening wings, he transformed, screeching in surprise and pain at the attack. Massive black wings blossomed from his back, unfolding with a flourish as his skin turned ashen gray, withered, and stretched, until the young man was once more the creature they had first met when they'd entered via Missouri's ceiling. Sam was faintly aware of the others changing too, but most of all, he was captivated by the snarling, screeching thing before him that had so recently been something human, something that reminded him almost of… him.

His ponderings were interrupted by several more gunshots and Dean's voice, calling above the noise.

"Run, Sam! Go! RUN!"

Ramiel reared up with a single beat of his wings and lunged for him, but Sam had scrambled up and had started to flee, so his talons met with only polished stone. Sam raced up the stairs, tripping and scraping his knees on the stairs' edges as he tried to take them four at a time. The beast behind him jumped from wall to wall, screaming in frustration at his escaping quarry. At last, they reached the top, and Sam threw open the door to a sickeningly familiar room.

The centerpiece was the pulley system for the giant bell that hung over their heads, tarnished and weathered, and it was towards this that Sam made his way; turning as he reached it, he continued backing up as the grigori emerges from the tiny spiral stairwell, bursting into the room in a flurry of feathers and hideous talons. Then, suddenly, the figure in the doorway was young and weary and, most notably, human. Panting quietly with exertion, he turned and closed the door, then turned back to Sam, watching him with a curious expression.

"Look familiar, Sam?" he said quietly.

They could still hear the sounds of the struggle going on downstairs, but Sam was focused completely on Ramiel.

"We both know how this ends, Sam," he said coolly. "Neither of the others knows what it is like for you, but I know. I think I understand it now." He cocked his head to the side. "Tell me, Sam: how is it always hearing whispers in the dark?"

Raising his gun, Sam emptied the chamber, his spirits sinking all the while as he realized the bullets had no effect. Sighing in something like frustration and disappointment, Ramiel let his shoulders fall and he changed once more, leaping forward. He hit Sam full in the chest, bowling him over with a grunt. As Sam reeled with pain, his world sliding in and out of focus, the grigori knelt down and fastened a set of talons around his throat; raising him up, he took two strides and slammed him gracelessly against the wall, knocking from him what little breath he'd been able to collect. Things were just starting to go dark and fuzzy when—

"Sam? SAM!"

_A door bangs open, and he's there, running, gunning, but too late. Heavy and sharp, talons around his throat._

Ramiel dropped him and turned to Dean, wrath in his eyes. On the floor, Sam coughed and wheezed, trying to provide his body with energy with which to move.

_A second's release – he tries to flee…_

A cry from Dean told him his rescue attempt had been unsuccessful, and he only had a second to scramble away before…

…_they find him again, grasp him tight and drag him towards perdition—_

Taloned feet fastened around his shoulders; wings beat heavily, and the two of them hurtled away from Dean, who had recovered his gun and started shooting again. The beautiful stained glass window came up quickly behind them, and then—

_Glass shatters into a new universe of misunderstanding, falling with him through fog._

The window exploded outwards, the night air hitting him with considerable force as Ramiel and he rocketed out of the bell tower into thin air. Below him, he could see only white wisps and fifty feet of nothing. He could hear Dean yelling, screaming his name, see his form at the broken window growing smaller as they left him behind—

_Tarred wings rustle in the plunge amidst a whispered prayer. _

There was something on Ramiel's lips, but at a whisper, he stood no chance of hearing it over the rush of wind past his ears. Upwards they climbed, further towards the strangely gleaming clouds and the blind eye of the moon. He fought to draw breath – the altitude was robbing the air of any useful oxygen he might have drawn. In a sudden flash of coherence, he understood the phrase his adversary was repeating: _forgive me_. He closed his eyes and waited for the plummeting sensation. The only plummeting he felt, however, was the feeling in his stomach when, in the back of his mind, he heard a hiss of frustration.

"Sammy, dear," it said quietly, "if you needed help, why didn't you just ask?"

In the same moment, the talons released him, and there came a rush of umber across his vision. Faintly, as if from a distance, he felt himself start to fall through the hundreds of feet of nothing he had observed before, and realized with a twinge that control of his body was no longer up to him.

"Well, now," said Janus, a hint of smugness on his borrowed lips. "Let's get started, shall we?"

…_he closes his eyes and unfurls his mistakes in an explosion of corrupting power._

And with a crawling sensation and a flood of something addictive through his veins, he felt two shadowy wings unfurl themselves to catch him as he fell.


	12. Tears of Saint Jude

**12. Tears of Saint Jude**

"'**Tis one thing to be tempted, and another to fall." – Shakespeare**

From the frame of the shattered window, Dean gaped, mind reeling in shock, as he watched the distant pair part and saw Sam's form start to fall. Panic coursed through him, as if he were the one two hundred feet in the air, tumbling head over heels. Adrenaline forcing him to act, he turned and sprinted for the door, but, curiously enough, there was someone in his way, leaning against the frame with crossed arms and a solemn expression.

"Let me go, Cas! I gotta go help—"

"--help Sam?" the angel finished grimly. "That ceased to be an option some time ago, Dean."

"We don't have time – _he_ doesn't have time!" When the angel showed no signs of moving, Dean raised his pistol and pressed it to the angel's temple. "Goddammit, Cas, you gotta let me save him."

Cas was characteristically unfazed.

"Your brother will only die if it is the will of God, and against this I am powerless. Besides—" he looked over Dean's shoulder and gestured, presumably out the window, "—Sam's judgment is already complete."

Dean whipped around just in time to see, silhouetted by the sheen of a wide moon, Sam slow in his fall. Leaving Cas to his own devices, he ran back to the widow, squinting to make out his little brother's savior. Something in his chest turned to ice when Sam pulled smoothly out of his dive and rose, ascending to the level of his grigori pursuer, and he was finally able to discern the reason for his sudden recovery. He was vaguely aware of Castiel's quiet tread behind him; when he spoke, the angel's voice was an odd mix of awe and fear.

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" he breathed.

* * *

The transformation was swift and almost pleasant in the invincible feeling that accompanied it; it was different this time, he was sure. For one, he was still aware of the situation at hand, simply observing it from a passenger's view. Janus' elation at being let out was less perceivable; he had suddenly become something hard and efficient, that playful tone in his voice a shadow of its former self.

"Are we having fun yet?"

The muscles in his wings flexed for the first time, sending shivers down his spine, and he felt Janus smile softly as, with a graceful swoop, they collided in mid-air with Ramiel in a flurry of screeching and slashing talons. For long moments they grappled, falling, snapping and ripping at each other, though if Ramiel landed any blows on them, Sam couldn't tell. When the ground came too close for comfort, they broke apart with cries of revenge on their lips, countering their slow downward spiral with powerful beating wings. Once they had regained their former height, they crashed together again, seeking destruction.

After several such altercations, a particularly nasty swipe with a sharpened talon left Ramiel stunned; the wound opened up, a clear line of red stretching from his cheek down and across his throat, and with an inhuman gurgle, he started to fall, his wings tucked uselessly against his back as he gained speed. With an exclamation of delight and accomplishment, Janus beat their wings to keep them aloft, watching with hardly bridled satisfaction as he watched his adversary plummet.

Behind him, something deep in Sam cringed.

"Sammy," said Janus as he realized Sam's intentions. "You can't be serious."

"Do it," he ordered, and with a flood of relief, he felt his counterpart reluctantly obey. His wings pressed tight to his back, and he turned his sights downwards as he too began to descend in pursuit of his former enemy.

He had, against all the laws of physics, almost caught up with Ramiel's limp form when, out of nowhere, two more bundles of tarred feathers and ashen skin swooped in to interfere.

* * *

Dean's stomach did a somersault when he saw the other two grigori join the fray. If his emotions had been confused before, they were now an absolute mess. Was the thing before him Sam or Janus? Both? Did he even want them to succeed? In any event, the grigori's friends, the ones he had half-assed into the 'angel's trap' downstairs, were clearly loose, and, by the look of things, out for blood. He turned to a calm-faced Castiel beside him.

"You gotta do something!" he yelled.

The angel remained unmoved. "It is heaven's will."

"Don't tell me this was all one big plan to get Sam killed, or so help me God—"

"He won't help you, Dean. Those were his instructions when we were sent here in the first place: do not become involved. Observe. Report. Do not participate."

"So you're just going to stand here and watch him die?!"

"I will stand here," he said quietly, "and watch _it _die."

A sinking feeling started in his gut.

"I promised you, Dean," Cas said. "I would find a way. This is the way."

"You can't – you can't---"

"I am a messenger of the Lord. I am His eyes and ears in this place, His instrument to command as He will, and first and foremost, a means by which He may cleanse the evil from his Creation."

"What if Janus weren't evil?"

Cas swung his head to stare at Dean. "He is an abomination. He must be stopped."

"He's a damn useful abomination. He's saved Sam's life twice now while you goddamn angels just looked the other way. Hell, he may be the best thing that could've happened to Sam while I was downstairs, and if that's your only reason, then you'd better get smart real fast, cause Sam won't wait, and neither will I."

For a moment, Castiel watched Dean with wide eyes. Then, in a second, he was gone. Swearing, Dean looked around for some other means with which he could save his brother, but froze as he heard a whisper on the wind.

"I suggest you close your eyes."

Realizing what was about to happen, he threw himself to the ground with his hands over his head as a searing light burned suddenly bright and all the sound in the world seemed to cease for a split second before—

--BOOM.

* * *

Blind, deaf, reeling from the sudden onslaught of senses, Janus screamed in shock and pain as the light penetrated even his shut eyelids. Behind him, Sam could make out a great swathe of brightness as it thundered towards them, feeling the heat of its passing as it blew by and hearing the cries of the grigori as they fell back, dazed by the blast. His newborn wings burned in its wake, and in a blink, they had dissolved, folding back into himself without a trace, his limbs reconstructing themselves so they were once again human. The refreshing feeling of being entirely himself lasted only for a moment until he realized he had returned to himself a hundred feet higher up than was usually healthy for humans. For what was to be the last time, he felt gravity exert its influence on him, but he'd hardly fallen ten feet before something caught him up in his embrace, hindering his fall while not stopping it; Ramiel's skin was cold and smooth as ice, as was his voice as he whispered in Sam's ear.

"Understand, Sam. I trust you. You must trust _me_ now."

A sudden, jagged pain went through his mind, and he was once again in two places at once, falling faster than ever before into the images being forced into his mind…

* * *

_Three men stand together with secret wings rising from their shoulders. Their hope should be gone, but they assure each other that they will not be gone long. Forever is only as long as you choose to make it, they say. A fourth figure joins them, emerging from the shadows beyond; they welcome him as a brother, hold out their hands to greet him, but he stops, considering. The plumage of his wings is particularly magnificent, the layered white and charcoal feathers only intensifying the yellow of his eyes—_

* * *

Stirring, Dean briefly cursed how many times he'd been generally abused in the last week. After being shot at, almost killed by his own brother, tossed around, scraped up, and beat down, he was getting supremely fed up with getting his ass kicked. He had gone through some pretty heavy stuff in his time, even before Sam had joined the hunt, and seen a lot of pretty wild stuff as a result. But nothing he'd seen or done prepared him for the sight he encountered when he emerged from the church doors into what once had been the parking lot.

Against the dusty asphalt, he could make out two figures in the growing dark. His attention was drawn to the first as it moved, jerking itself into a sitting position. IT paused only briefly to cough blood from its throat, just long enough for Dean to recognize him – Ramiel, the youngest of the three grigori; he was in a bad way, looking like he'd been worked over pretty well by a grizzly bear, but he seemed unshaken. Then, in a sudden move, he looked up, straight at Dean, and scrambled to his feet, managing to get airborne and disappear into the dark before Dean had the sense to draw his weapon. Instead, he turned his attention to the other form.

Sam looked like he could use another stint in the hospital, where they were undoubtedly headed as soon as they could get out of here. A swell of relief hit him as he saw Sam move, turning over with a groan and pushing himself up on one elbow as he pressed his other arm – and the shattered cast on it – against his chest protectively.

"Sam?" he called uncertainly, jogging closer.

"I'm here," he returned weakly. "I'm all right."

"What the hell was…?"

"I don't know, but I think I know someone who does. Where's Castiel?"

Dean stopped, scanning the parking lot. Feeling a little foolish, Dean called out to the empty night.

"Cas?"

The summons produced no effect. Wandering off across the parking lot, Dean squinted through the dark, trying to make out a shape.

"Cas? Cas, where'd you—"

Fumbling in his pockets for extra ammo for his drawn pistol, he swore quietly as he heard his lighter clatter to the ground. Kneeling, he put his hands to the ground, groping for it, jumping when he met with a warm sticky feeling.

"No," he said. "No, no, no…"

Feeling his fingers close around the lighter, he rose and, shaking the wet from it, opened it and flicked the wheel until it sputtered to life.

Before him on the ground lay a sad and punished form, spread-eagled and yet strangely noble in his pose. From his shoulders, extending to either side of him and further into the dark, ragged crimson smears formed a mocking pair of less-than-angelic wings. Staring into eyes frozen wide as if in eternal awe of the sky above, Dean jumped when he heard a tiny voice and realized its source.

"I come to you in pieces," Castiel whispered, choking with the effort of it, "that I may do the work of the righteous."


End file.
